


Almost Unnameable Lust

by nuclearfootball



Series: Bridges Freeze Before Roadway [1]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-11 15:19:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 27,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4440929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nuclearfootball/pseuds/nuclearfootball
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A rambling (but interesting, I hope) journey through Wilson's suicidal life, alongside the one thing that tethers him to the world. (HINT it's House.) EMPHASIS ON SUICIDAL. THE IDEA OF SUICIDE SATURATES THIS STORY. Cheers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. hope now, --

**Author's Note:**

> AUTHOR'S NOTE: So if you've been in the House/Wilson fandom for a long time you may have read this. I started rereading it recently and realized I still really really like it, so I thought I'd barf it all over some fanfic sites and see if anyone else likes it. And I've never published something with this "Kudos" system do I'm sure to be drowning in them!!!!! The whole story's about 28,000 words overall, written episodically; I'll be posting in 11 parts like I did on {lol} LiveJournal years ago.

BLACK KNIGHT // PROLOGUE  
_If it has ever been taken up as an option, the black knight has a tendency to remain in play._ \-- Kay Redfield Jamison, **Night Falls Fast**

What worries him the most is the idea that it wasn’t a proper suicide attempt.

For years the memory has colored the way he’s seen himself -- as someone who both survived a suicide attempt and still harbors the ability to try again. 

But if no one even knows you did it, is it a suicide attempt? He didn’t take a lot of pills, he didn’t slash his wrists -- he didn’t even go to hospital or see a doctor. 

He just had a loaded gun to his head.

And yes, he _started_ to pull the trigger -- but he didn’t. 

He chickened out, so did he _really_ try to kill himself?

No matter how many times he runs that afternoon through his head, it doesn’t change anything. He’s very clear on the chain of events; he’s unclear on how exactly one would classify it.

He closes his eyes and it all plays again.

He goes into his friend’s father’s study, slides open the desk drawer, takes out the handgun. Tears are running down his face (though his present self does not dwell on _why_ ) as he contemplates the weight of the gun, the word COLT. 

Impulsively he raises the gun to his head and presses the barrel harder and harder against his temple, hoping perhaps that he if he just _wants_ it badly enough, he can be rid of himself without the commitment of pulling the trigger. 

He hesitates, his finger hovering, battling with himself to both _just do it_ and _stop!_

Some remaining sliver of self-preservation makes him slam the gun onto the desk. He shoves the gun back into the drawer and runs out of the room, and out of that house, forever. 

For years he regrets not dying more than he regrets losing the friend, but as time passes the incident becomes almost comforting. He _almost died_. After that nothing could touch him; and surely nothing could get as bad as that again…and if it did, well he almost did it once, he could certainly go through with it now if he really wanted to…

But now, for the first time in many years, he doesn’t just wish to die. He wishes that the fifteen-year-old boy in that study had done it for him, had spared him these years of misery laced with too little joy, and he starts to hate that boy for being a coward.

And the self-loathing infects his one pure moment, and he wonders if he isn’t just fooling himself. _He_ would never be brave enough to (almost) kill himself -- he had just been a stupid kid, a stupid kid who thought his stupid problem was worth dying over.

If that stupid kid had just finished the job, he wouldn’t be here now, with this problem that really _was_ worth dying over. 

So why doesn’t he just do it now?

…

“Coward,” he whispers as he shoves the box back into its hiding place.

 

FIRST CONFERENCE // NEW ORLEANS

He stares down at the street below and wonders what it would be like to plummet twenty stories.

He’s never given serious consideration to any method besides the gun, but sometimes when opportunity knocks you should answer the door.

He imagines falling, his back to the street; it’s enough to _know_ what’s coming, he doesn’t need to _see_ it. And he doesn’t want to see the person he might hit, though in his fantasy someone notices him falling, and screams, and people are alerted to get out of the way.

Would he fall straight down, onto the sidewalk? Or if he pushed off the ledge, would he maybe hit a car? He doesn’t know which would be better; surely hitting the roof of a car would be just as instantly fatal, right?

Why didn’t they teach things like this in med school?

It sickens him how _poignant_ it will be, the promising young man fresh out of medical school, wiped out in his prime. 

And it _really_ sickens him that people will think it’s because of the divorce; he will begrudgingly admit that it’s a _catalyst_ , but no one should give his estranged “love” that much credit. She doesn’t have the power to kill him -- no one has that power, except himself, and it’s about damned time he exercised that power.

He hears laugher in the hallway. Everybody’s been having a fucking blast at this thing, and it’s getting to be quite grating. He hasn’t had a real friend since high school. 

It’s not that he’s actively avoided making friends -- he’s just so tightly wound in his own miserable little cocoon that no one seems worth the time. And ever since the last time he was this close to death, he’s felt alienated; like everyone _knows_ that he doesn’t really want to be there anymore, so why waste time on him?

But no one _does_ know that, because he’s never told anyone. No one knows the shit that goes through his head every fucking minute of every fucking day, so when he dies they _will_ just think it’s because of “heartbreak” and no one will even think it’s that odd.

Just another kid who couldn’t deal with a romance gone wrong.

He tries to tell himself that it doesn’t matter -- _he’ll be dead_ , what the fuck will he know or care what people believe to be the cause? 

But he does care. He wants so fucking badly to _mean_ something to someone, to leave a hole in someone’s life when he’s gone.

More laughter, and footsteps running down the hall. He squeezes his eyes shut in anger; dammit, he wants a clear head for this.

_Fuck it_ , he thinks, pushing away from the window.

Might as well get wasted first.

 

WHITE KNIGHT

Well this is just kind of funny.

He rests his head against the cool concrete of the holding cell wall and wonders if he could have put up enough of a fight to get the cops to shoot him. If nothing else he could probably have grabbed one of their guns and done it himself--

Closing his eyes, he slowly starts to whack his head against the wall. It really does no good to think about all this _now_ , but honestly he doesn’t know what else to think about. He just knows he has to get out of here and end this before he has to hear about it from that bitch, or her mother, or anyone else. 

He doesn’t want to have to explain himself; there’s simply nothing to explain. This is just the way it fucking is, and there’s no sense looking for reasons because knowing why won’t change anything.

Really though he doesn’t regret this little incident at all. It had felt damn good to yell and throw that bottle and just let a tiny corner of the world know that he was angry, just _too fucking angry to live_. It had felt _damn_ good…

A couple of hours pass; a few more guys are shoved into the cell, but they ignore him and he ignores them.

He’s starting to eye the others and fantasize antagonizing one of them into a riot when the cell opens again. “James Wilson?”

He stands up warily. The cop jerks his head towards the door, and Wilson follows him out. He has no idea what to expect from any of this, at this point he’s just along for the ride.

There are several people milling around, and Wilson is vaguely aware of one approaching him. “I took care of it,” the guy says.

He’s almost unsure that the guy’s talking to _him_. “I’m…sorry?”

“I took care of it,” he says again, raising his voice playfully. “You’re a free man.”

Wilson twitches slightly. “Um…thanks.”

The stranger cocks his head. “Talkative one, aren’t you?” He sticks his hand out. “Greg House.”

Wilson shakes his hand, trying not to tremble. “James Wilson,” he mumbles, confused, unsettled and intrigued by this person’s sudden appearance, sudden generosity and sudden blue eyes.

One of the policemen gets his attention, and he dully signs whatever’s put in front of him. He’s not really listening to anything, as he’ll be dead soon so who the fuck cares?

He accepts his belongings and walks back over to his apparent new friend. “So, Wilson,” the guy says cheerfully, “I don’t know about you, but I could use an early breakfast.”

Wilson nods dumbly. He’s drawn to this person, he can _feel_ it, and he doesn’t think it’s just because the guy sprung him. Though he’s certainly curious as to _why_ a person would bail a stranger out like that…

Certainly he doesn’t want Wilson to….Surely he doesn’t want _Wilson_ \--

Wilson feels a rush he hasn’t felt in years, and the emotion of it overrides all thought and memory. It's also been years since he's looked forward to anything; but he’s certainly looking forward to breakfast.

 

VELOCITY-ONE  
_V 1 is the maximum speed during takeoff at which a pilot can safely stop the aircraft without leaving the runway ... The decision must be made to continue or abort--_

He’s pretty sure most airplane crashes happen while the plane is attempting to land; so there’s still hope.

…Okay so he doesn’t really want the plane to crash; he has little desire to take two hundred innocent lives with him. But he feels good, for the first time in a very long while, and to die on this plane would just be the icing on the cake of this very strange weekend.

House had blown off the conference -- all too happily, it seemed -- to hang out with Wilson, and they’d wandered around the city and stuffed their faces and listened to music and just generally had a great time. Since he didn’t really know the guy, Wilson had felt free to be himself, perhaps for the first time ever.

Wilson will never see him again, of course; despite the phone number tucked in his wallet and the knowledge that they live just a few hours apart, life doesn’t work that way. It’s enough that Wilson got to enjoy himself for a bit, and he feels okay now. He connected with someone; and who knows, maybe House will notice his name in an article somewhere and miss him.

The thought of House lamenting the fact that he could never see him again fills Wilson with an absurd pleasure. It’s crazy to be so attached to someone so quickly, but why fight it at this point?

The plane lands smoothly on the runway, but it doesn’t dampen Wilson’s mood. Even seeing her in the terminal doesn’t get him down; he would really rather have just taken a cab, but hey whatever.

He retrieves his bag and they walk silently to the car.

Staring contentedly out the window, lost in his own thoughts, he doesn’t even know she’s said anything.

“James!“ she snaps.

“Oh, sorry, what?” He doesn’t look away from the window; it’s a beautiful day outside. Everything’s really falling to place--

“I said some jackass has called the house three times,” she says irritably.

His heart stops for at least five seconds. “…Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, you fucking guys now too?”

He manages to find the breath to say, “It’s--about a job.” She rolls her eyes in disbelief but doesn’t say any more.

When they get home, Wilson doesn’t even go into the house. He carries his bags to his car; she completely ignores him and goes inside, slamming the door behind her.

He sits in the car, at a complete loss. It had to have been House calling; only he would keep calling back when she must have been so clearly annoyed with him.

He smiles even as his heart sinks. He already feels like he knows House so well…

God damn it. He had been planning on checking into the Sheraton; live it up, spend some of his money before she gets even more than the half she’s expecting.

But…what if he’ll need the money? He’s not hurting for it, but paying her off will take a chunk, and--and--

He can’t breathe. Why is he even considering this? Why is he even imagining a tomorrow? It was all so fucking clear an hour ago, why is he panicking now?

He starts the car and peels out just to be doing something. He drives around for an hour or so, his mind an agony of indecision, and finally pulls into the Comfort Inn. A fair compromise…

Staring at the phone on the nightstand, he slowly pulls his wallet out. He unfolds the piece of paper and reads the number for the thousandth time, written much more legibly than the one he handed House. And yet House had deciphered it, and called him--House wanted to talk to him, maybe even see him again…maybe they could be friends--

_And then we’ll ride our unicorns off to Happy Gay Rainbow Fucking Wonderful Awesome Land,_ he thinks bitterly. _Whywhywhywhy_ is he even thinking about this?

He should stick with the plan. Closing his eyes, he tries to remind himself why it’s for the best.

_You’re a liar, a cheat, an adulterer. You’re worthless. You won’t miss anyone and no one will miss you._

His eyes open miserably. _But that’s not true anymore, is it?_

Logically, he should leave. Actually, he should have left years ago, but that’s water under the bridge now.

And still--well, what if he could have a bit more fun? The last couple of days had been marred slightly by his overwhelming desire to kiss House, who had clearly been flirting with him but made no actual moves. Maybe he could just kiss him and see what happened; dead now, dead then, did it really make a difference?

He picks up the phone and dials before he can think about it further.

He’s never hated himself more than he does right now.

**VOODOO**

He hangs up the phone and stares dully at it.

Another person in the room would see none of Wilson's turmoil reflected in his outer features; he is too confused, blindsided, unsure of himself to do anything but blink when necessary.

That call's probably going to cost as much as the room, he muses.

Worth every cent, though -- how they could find so many things to talk about so soon and so easily he has no idea, but they talked and talked until he could hear House's stomach rumbling from hundreds of miles away.

Wilson is not hungry. Before they hung up they made plans for House to come visit; only a month or so away. And House had said he would call tomorrow; not knowing where he might be -- and unwilling to admit as much to House -- Wilson insisted he be the one to call him.

_"Promise?" House said playfully._

_"...Promise," Wilson responded, his heart moving even further up his throat._

Wilson closes his eyes.

What is this?

If this were happening with a woman, it would be crystal clear. They'd fallen for each other, she was gonna come visit, they'd fuck and maybe start a relationship.

Wilson glances at his carry-on bag, thinking of the souvenirs that lay within.

He rummages and pulls out a voodoo doll, wondering if they can be used for good as well as evil. There are no instructions with the doll, just a bundle of pins attached to its side.

Not that he believes in stuff like voodoo anyway.

He stares at the doll's black eyes.

He's just in desperate need of a distraction, that's all. His body is at war with itself, simultaneously wanting to die right now and never suffer the heartache that lies ahead but also unable to resist seeing what happens.

Even though he knows a world of heartache lies ahead; he can feel it stretching before him like his suddenly extended life.

He carefully undoes the bundle of pins, extracting a promising-looking one.

Even though he knows this is his future, maybe it can be worth it. Maybe he can find enough joy with this stranger to make it worthwhile.

He pushes the pin into the doll's heart.


	2. not health,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do I really have to right (--HOLY SHIT I REALLY DID THIS i blame the bubblegum vodka) a summary for each part? You can glance at the section titles and usually tell what they're about. I guess I can note if it's canon or not.
> 
> It's still pre-canon.

BEST / WORST

These are the best of times; these are the worst of times.

It took barely two weeks for Wilson to realize that he and House were now best friends; House clearly had no other friends, and Wilson had been avoiding most other people for years.

They talked every day, usually when House called to rant about the latest round of stupidity he’d had to deal with. But he always listened when Wilson complained about _his_ day, too, even when he clearly didn’t think Wilson had it as bad.

At least once a month one of them would drive the few hours to the other’s place and hang out for the weekend; they would drink, go to movies, do whatever sounded like fun at the moment. They even went to monster truck rally once, something Wilson enjoyed _far_ more than he’d expected.

Looking forward to House made the days go by quicker, though sometimes the wait was interminable. He’s on his fourth girlfriend in as many months; he either gets too bored, or they get too tired of him spending more time with someone in the next state than with them.

One accused him of being gay; he shrugged and told her she was just upset she couldn’t “convert” him, even with her obviously fake tits. That got him a slap and a fun story to tell House later -- minus the gay accusation, of course.

Wilson had decided that was a topic best left untouched, unless he got what he felt was a clear message from House. He wasn’t about to risk the only thing that gave him any happiness, though, so the message would pretty much have to be as obvious as House shoving his dick up Wilson’s ass.

In the meantime he would try to make do with phone calls and B-movies.

 

BROTHER

He hasn’t talked to his family in months; not since he called with the news of the divorce and his new address.

He knows that if they talk, the subject of his brother will come up, and he just can’t deal with it right now.

Maybe he’s a little jealous, yeah -- all these years they’ve spent worrying about Daniel when James was dying right under their noses.

But whatever.

He thinks back on the last time he saw his brother -- when the family had decided _James_ was the best one to go bring him home. James was the level-headed one, the one who always fixed things.

Instead he and Daniel had argued for ten minutes about how easy James had always had it, what a _success_ he was, how Mr. Med School could have no idea what his tormented brother was going through.

Wilson had returned home alone, and told the family that he couldn’t find Daniel.

He thinks back on the last time he spoke to his brother -- when he had hung up on him, sick of his shit, sick of his whining, sick of his inability to see beyond his own problems.

For years -- _years_ \-- Wilson had put up with his brother and his brother‘s baggage. Worried about him, helped him, _tried_ to help him, despaired when he couldn’t help him.

And eventually well he just couldn’t be bothered to care anymore. He had his own baggage to haul around.

Really, how much can a person be expected to put up with, even from someone they love?

 

SLEEPLESS

He hasn’t slept well in weeks. Between twelve-hour days at work and moving in with the girlfriend he’s too apathetic to leave, it’s been a rough time.

Plus he hasn’t talked to House in five days; House has called several times, much to the girlfriend’s annoyance, but Wilson simply hasn’t had time to call back.

He tries not to be afraid that House will lose interest. It’s not likely that House will find another friend very easily, but he could very well give up on Wilson out of spite.

At least House seems even less inclined to settle down with a woman than Wilson is….He’s told a few stories, and once a female voice answered the phone when Wilson called, but House has said quite clearly that he has little interest in a long-term relationship.

“Except with you, of course,” he’d then added jokingly, batting his eyelashes at a short-of-breath Wilson.

The bright green numbers tell him it’s two-thirty in the morning. He stares at the ceiling, trying to ignore the person next to him. There’s nothing wrong with her, and she is company, but still. Hard to be enthusiastic about it anymore.

Hard to be enthusiastic about anything anymore.

…Was he ever enthusiastic about anything?

His mind has barely started down that well-worn path when the phone rings.

He scrambles for the cordless on the bedside table as she swears loudly.

“Hello?” he whispers into the receiver, stumbling out of the room and shutting the door as quietly as he can.

“Turn on Cinemax right now,” House whispers.

“I don’t have Cinemax anymore,” Wilson says. “Why are you whispering?”

“Well fuck, that’s too bad. You’re missing some excellent tits,” House says regretfully. “…And I didn’t want to risk annoying Her Delicacy any further. But Jesus, this is the only time I felt confident you might actually be there to talk.”

Wilson collapses on the sofa. “Work has been sucking pretty hard.”

“Same here,” House grumbles. “Do you want to complain first or should I?”

Wilson smiles. “Go ahead.”

He gets maybe an hour of sleep, but Wilson feels better the next day than he has in a long time.

 

EXPERIMENT

He’s mortified before he’s even undone his belt; but ever since he found the toy in the beside drawer, he hasn’t been able to get it out of his mind.

He tells himself it’s not _that_ weird a thing to do. Who _doesn’t_ masturbate with his girlfriend’s dildo in order to get a better feel of what it would be like to be fucked by his best friend? It can’t be as odd as it feels.

At any rate he’s doing it. She has an annoying habit of always wanting to spend _time_ with him, and this overnight stay at her parents’ house is too precious an opportunity to pass up. 

He sits nervously on the bed, still dressed in his work clothes. He doesn’t plan on getting undressed -- it’s somehow less embarrassing that way. Like this is just something spontaneous and wacky, not something he’s been obsessing over for weeks.

The toy isn’t very big at all, certainly nowhere near the size of a human penis. But it must serve her purposes well enough, and he figures it will serve his. He just wants an idea…

He settles back as comfortably as he can and closes his eyes, trying to relax. He presses “play” in the middle of a random fantasy, and House is there, in the room. He comes over to the bed without a word and kisses Wilson, covering Wilson’s body with his own; holding him down so Wilson can’t breathe, speak, move, can do nothing but submit--

Wilson makes a strained noise in his throat and yanks his pants down to his knees; breathing shallowly, he liberally smears Vaseline onto the dildo. He turns just enough to reach behind himself with his left hand, his need cancelling out the embarrassment, and carefully presses the toy against himself.

He tries again to relax; the last thing he needs is treatment for a self-inflicted rectal injury. He imagines House behind him and pushes harder, involuntarily crying out when the toy enters his body.

It hurts, just a little, just enough to indicate that the real thing must _really_ hurt. But very quickly it’s a good pain, and when he dares to push further he hits his prostate and almost faints.

It’s awkward -- made even more so by his khakis around his knees -- but he grabs himself with his other hand and jerks, hard; both of his wrists work furiously for barely a minute before he comes with a shout, his knees drawing up and his back arching.

He lies in a stupor for another minute, trying to process what just happened. Really all that happened was the best orgasm of his life, but there’s so much more to it than that…

He _needs_ to feel that, needs to feel House inside of him like that or he’ll die. 

But he still can’t tell if House would ever go for it, and he knows he’ll never be able to tell, and he knows he’ll die before it ever happens.

And he knows he would never be able to let anyone else do it. 

He shakily does his pants up and crawls under the covers, even though it’s barely seven o’clock. He’s sickened by the mixture of contentment from the orgasm and knowledge that it’s only a fraction of what he could feel, but never will.

He knows how pathetic it is, but he comforts himself with another fantasy, and falls asleep in House’s arms.

 

MOVING

There’s no way this is a mistake.

He’s moving to a better job, with much better pay; he’s getting away from this person he’s come to loathe. He’ll be living minutes away from his best friend.

It’s all great. Which doesn’t explain why he’s lying on the floor of the empty apartment, staring at an outlet, vaguely thinking of ways to electrocute himself.

The thing is -- when he’s this far away from House physically, it’s much easier to be so far away from House emotionally. 

But when he can see House literally whenever he wants…

House had offered to let Wilson stay with him until he found a good place of his own, but Wilson had balked at that and leased the first dump he looked at. He already hated it, but that would just make it easier to justify being at House’s as much as he planned to.

One would think it would have made his life much easier to just _move in_ to House’s apartment instead of just planning to _be there_ all the time, but…one would be wrong. 

For reasons Wilson will and won’t admit to himself, one would just be wrong, that’s all. 

It’s better to keep that distance….He can’t even promise _himself_ that he’ll be able to maintain that distance once he’s so close, but he intends to try.

He slowly gets up, determined to see the bright side of things. He’s going to be able to hang out with House _all the time_ \-- whenever they want, whatever they want to do. Movies, bowling, pizza and beer and bad television shows. It’ll be great, really.

And he’s going to try to go without female companionship for awhile…as far as a relationship goes, at least. They just end poorly for everyone.

So as long as House doesn’t go all domestic on him, life just might be okay for awhile.

 

STACY

“Excuse me,” Wilson says suddenly, jumping up from the table. He scurries to the bathroom, bumping into several wait staff on the way.

The bathroom is thankfully empty, and he flattens his palms on the countertop, willing himself to relax. He stares into the sink, counting each breath until he can form a thought.

_She’s … nice._ He glances up into the mirror and glares at himself.

He doesn’t find her particularly attractive, but she’s smart, and charming, and House is laughing at her jokes.

He wants so badly to hate her, but besides the mere fact that House is infatuated with her, he can’t think of a reason.

_That’s **enough** of a reason._ Why can’t he just _hate_ people like House does? House hates everyone and doesn’t seem the worse for wear.

Well, House hates everyone except _him_ …

…and _her_.

If he had eaten more than a few bites of his meal, he would throw up. 

_This is stupid. Grow up. Of course he would eventually find someone._

_He’s **got** someone._

But House has never seemed to want him, not like that, and Wilson supposes his own behavior doesn’t encourage the possibility. Sometimes he’ll be in a mood during which he’ll sleep with anything willing…and sometimes those moods last for months. And House knows it, not because Wilson tells him but because House just _knows_. Can sense the weird combination of guilt and satisfaction that Wilson must wear like cologne.

So good for House. Maybe she’ll be good for him…or maybe it’ll fizzle in a few weeks. 

That’s the most likely scenario, of course! Who can put up with House for more than ten minutes, anyway?

Wilson, that’s who. The _only_ who.

Feeling a bit better but unable to continue socializing, he mumbles something about his stomach before throwing some money down and making his escape. 

His cell phone rings before he’s even made it to his car.

“Are you okay?” House asks.

“I’m fine, I’m just getting a cold or something,” he replies lamely.

“Good….So what do you think?”

_Fuck! Can’t you just care about me for once?_ “She’s nice.”

He can hear House chewing on his lip. “I think I’m gonna ask her to move in with me.”

Wilson almost drops the phone. “ _What?_ “

“I know it’s soon, but…I just _feel_ something, you know? Something I’ve never felt before. …Jesus, listen to me! I sound like a--”

Wilson has stopped listening. 

Wilson has hung up the phone.

Wilson has turned his phone off.

* * * * *

Wilson had hoped to avoid House today, but is caught as soon as he gets off the elevator.

“You’re here early,” Wilson says. “And my phone died last night, sorry.”

“I wondered,” House replies, looking confused. “Are you okay? I thought with your stomach--”

“I’m fine.”

“I called your apartment, like, a dozen times.”

Wilson tucks House’s concern away to savor later. “I ran into a friend, went back to their place.” He pushes past House, trying to escape to his office.

He doesn’t want to dwell on it, always feels terrible when he uses someone, even if they offer themselves up more than willingly. Because he always hates them; through the whole thing he hates them, because none of them is who he wants. And he hates himself for using people, because he doesn’t want to use people. He doesn’t _want_ to be a terrible person…

It would just make so much more sense to _die_. 

Of course House follows him into his office.

“Well,” House stammers, uncharacteristically unsure of his words, “I was just worried that…I’d upset you. Or that you didn’t like her.”

Wilson looks at him, and he would swear House actually _looked_ worried. Maybe House _needs_ Wilson to like Stacy, because…because it would just make House’s life easier, wouldn’t it? 

Wilson smiles warmly. “I did like her, House, I just felt like shit. I’m sorry I ruined the evening.”

“Oh no, you didn’t ruin it,” House says quickly. ( _Maybe I **wanted** to ruin it,_ Wilson thinks bitterly, the smile never leaving his face.) “She had nothing but good things to say about you, and was concerned when you left so abruptly.”

“How nice of her,” Wilson says. He tries and fails to make the smile reach his eyes. _I’m soooooo concerned what she thinks of me._ “I’m sure I’ll see her again soon.”

“Definitely…so you’re okay?” 

“I’m fine! Just a bug.”

House gives him a funny look, then nods and leaves.

Wilson collapses into his chair. He’s so fucking tired of pretending to like people, but for House’s sake he’ll play along. Be the Good Friend; put his own needs aside. Turn all of the hatred back on himself.

He puts his head down on his desk. 

The road is so very high sometimes, and there just never seems to be any traffic to lie down in front of.

 

HECTOR

Wilson smiles as the puppy notices his tail and instantly declares war. He watches the puppy tumble across the carpet, snagging him before he can bump his head on the coffee table.

“Hector,” he says quietly, holding the tiny white dog up to his face. 

Bonnie was way too pleased with herself with that name. Wilson hadn’t believed her; she had to write it out and point to each letter to convince him that he had married someone who already hated his best friend so much that she had expressed it by spending hours concocting an anagram in order to name a dog.

“This isn’t going to work, is it, Hector?” he asks the puppy, who stares at the ceiling in reply.

Wilson sits on the floor cross-legged and absent-mindedly rubs behind Hector’s ears. 

Before the wedding, Bonnie had seemed tolerant of House. It was clear she didn’t _like_ him, wouldn’t have liked him even if he didn’t take up so much of Wilson’s time.

But now that they were married, she seemed to be growing openly hostile. Like things were supposed to change now; he was supposed to always pick her over House, no matter what the circumstances, just because she was his “wife.”

He _wants_ to be a good husband; Bonnie’s a good person, and he does love her…to a certain extent. He’s come to realize that he really doesn’t _know_ her, nor does he know her expectations.

He doesn’t believe he led her on. He’s made no grand gestures, no sweeping proclamations of love. She even came onto _him_ first. And yeah, he has said “I love you” on more than one occasion, and he did propose marriage and all…

A terrible coldness washes through him. _Shit._ He can anticipate it now -- the moment when he ruins Bonnie’s life. And it’s no one’s fault but his own.

If he wasn’t so goddamned lonely and jealous, maybe he could just live alone and not worry about anyone loving him back. Or he could live with someone without _marrying_ them! He’s lived with how many women since he met House? He can’t even immediately think of them all.

Why did he have to get _married_ this time…?

An image of House and Stacy together flashes in front of his eyes. Not even an actual memory -- they’re there, sitting on his brand new living room couch, playing footsie and giggling and mocking him. _Ignoring_ him.

At times like this Wilson doesn’t recall the fact that he still spends a good deal of time with House; if he stopped to really think about it, he would realize that House doesn’t act any differently around Wilson than he used to.

It’s just that House is happy, and in love, and happy living with someone he loves; while Wilson is only one of those things.

He smiles sadly as Hector nips at his fingers. He figures it won’t hurt to try this marriage thing again, and if nothing else he can always blow his brains out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omfg i cannot believe i did that


	3. nor cheerfulness,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> INFARCTION TIME

KARMA

As soon as the family leaves his office, he locks the door and collapses onto the couch. He grabs a pillow and presses it against his face, stifling a scream.

How can he sit there and tell people they’re dying? How can he keep telling _parents_ that there’s nothing he can do for their five-year-old daughter, who’s going to die before their eyes?

Where does he get off, when he can’t decide most of the time if he even wants to go on living?

He grabs a book and throws it across the room. It puts a slight dent in the drywall; a mute gesture, but a small indication of his misery.

People always think he picked this field to help people; they see his natural "gift" for comforting others and think he's some sort of wunderkind. Except for House, who thinks he chose it because he has a pathological need to absorb the misery of others.

Wilson for his part has never really examined _why_ he chose oncology. As a constant reminder to himself that he's a piece of shit with made-up problems who doesn't deserve a bit of what he's got, perhaps?

He’s physically healthy, with a good-paying job, a wife, a best friend, a car, a house, an education, the respect of his peers -- and he really does just _want_ to throw it all away in favor of an early grave.

What a fucking asshole.

Karma should really have done the job for him by now, but he supposes that would be getting off too easy.

MEANS  
 _Since we can die but once, what matters it,  
If rope or garter, poison, pistol, sword,  
Slow-wasting sickness, or the sudden burst  
Of valve arterial in the noble parts,  
Curtail the miseries of human life?_  
\--Thomas Chatterton

He panics one day when he realizes -- if he _did_ suddenly have the guts to do it, _how_ would he do it?

He has access to a galaxy of pills, of course, but he’s never seriously considered going that way. If he goes, he wants to make sure he’s gone; no chances for revival. He wants someone to be able to just _look_ at him and tell there’s no use trying to save him.

He doesn’t trust himself to hang properly, nor does he care to bother finding a structure tall enough for a fatal fall. Drowning is always an option, but even that leaves too much room for survival.

No, the only way is with a bullet.

Violent, final, with a clear message.

He buys a small lockbox first, then drives to a gun show four hours away.

It's a wonderland of self-deliverance. He knows next to nothing about guns, just picks out something he recognizes; something familiar.

Something _very_ familiar, in fact, though of course that's because it's one of the most popular handguns ever made. No matter, just because it's common doesn't mean it can't be special to _him_. 

When he returns home, he feels calmer than he has in a long while. 

He tucks the box safely away, reassured that if he does get the nerve, all he needs is the tiny key in his wallet to finally be done with it.

At this point he fears he never will get the nerve, but at least he’s ready…

SECOND CONFERENCE

It’s just a panic attack. He’s a doctor, he could surely tell if it was something worse.

…The question is, would he do anything about it if it _was_ something worse?

It’s kind of hilarious that he might. Here nature might be trying to do the job for him, and he’s considering trying to save himself.

There was a time when, as ambivalent as he was about living or dying, he would have happily accepted a natural death.

He wonders how concerned House would be. Maybe he should call House now, describe his symptoms, casually get a second opinion.

But he imagines House scoffing at him, telling him _of course it’s just a panic attack you idiot, now we’re busy so just wait until **I** call **you** to help me kill time, okay?_

Bonnie knocks on the bathroom door, asks if he’s okay, says they need to leave soon. He says yes, he’s almost ready.

He feels her hovering outside, unsure, but then she walks off. She’s expressed concern over his increasingly erratic behavior but seems to have given up on helping him. Part of him wishes she would ask House for help; part of him wonders if she already has and House just doesn’t care.

Really though she would never ask House anything -- there’s no love lost there. Whereas Wilson is forced to go on frequent outings with House and Stacy; and he can’t even be comforted by House’s apparent desire to have him along, because of the way he looks at _her_.

Wilson would never have imagined House could look at anyone like that.

His back against the tub, Wilson draws his knees up to his chest and buries his face in his arms, his heart pounding harder and harder.

Just a panic attack. He hopes … maybe.

He stares at the suitcase next to him, trying desperately to breathe more slowly. Maybe this conference will do him some good…a few days away from House, Bonnie, the hospital…might do him good.

Or he’ll spend the entire weekend trying to convince himself to die.

He won’t, of course, because he’s a pathetic coward. He’ll trudge right back home, fall into the same routine, looking forward to nothing but the time he gets to spend alone with House.

He slams his hand against the bathtub; the jolt of physical pain and anger helps turn the self-pity back into self-loathing, which makes it much easier to get to his feet and pick up the suitcase.

INFARCTION

It wouldn’t have made any difference if he had been here. He would have had no say, no power. But he could have _tried_ …

He hates Bonnie for not telling him sooner. She _had_ to have known the day before she told him, and she just didn’t say anything because she knew he would come rushing back. And she’s jealous.

Well she has every reason to be jealous. Fuck her.

Fuck all of them for doing this to him. How could they go against his wishes like that?

_What if he had died?_ A little voice has been asking that question constantly all day, and he tells it the exact same answer every time.

_Then **I** could have died._

The way it is, it’s killing him to see House like this. Lying there, vulnerable and almost helpless and _self-aware_. Hating everything around him. 

Except Wilson. Wilson gets a free pass because he wasn’t there -- he had no hand in crippling House. So maybe it was good that he wasn’t there.

But still…he wishes he had had a chance to prevent it. He wishes he had sensed something wrong. He wishes he hadn’t gone to that damned conference.

They’re arguing now, as he waits politely outside the door to House’s room. He can hear them distinctly; they’re past the point of caring that people know they’re fighting.

Which means it’s only a matter of time before she’s gone.

A small part of him hurts for House, but a much bigger part knows that he can take better care of House than she ever could -- obviously, given her recent actions.

So House is really going to be much better off.

Stacy finally storms out of the room; if she even sees Wilson she doesn’t acknowledge it, which is perfectly fine with him.

He closes the door behind him. He’s hardly slept and he and House haven’t had much alone time, and he plans to kill both of those birds by ’inadvertently’ falling asleep in the chair next to House’s bed.

He briefly considers calling Bonnie to tell her where he’ll be tonight, but fuck it. She knows. She’s probably not happy about it, but Wilson doesn’t particularly care what she is or isn’t happy about anymore. He’s done even trying to pretend she’s the most important person in his life.

House glances over as he enters the room. Wilson offers a sad smile, then drops his bag next to the chair and leans over House. “Hey,” he says softly. He doesn’t want to risk being condescending, so he doesn’t even try to ask how House feels.

He knows how House feels. House feels like shit.

The residual anger from Stacy’s visit fades in House’s eyes, replaced with a weariness that grips Wilson’s heart.

“Wilson,” House croaks, grabbing at Wilson’s arm. Wilson can tell he’s pretty heavily drugged. “What would you have done?”

Wilson looks him in the eye. Drugged or not, House will remember what he says; and Wilson knows he has to tell him the truth.

“I would have waited,” he says. “I would have done what you wanted, and if it had gone wrong I would have hated myself for the rest of my life.” _Which wouldn’t have been very long_ , he adds in his head.

House’s grip tightens as he judges Wilson’s sincerity. Then, satisfied, he nods and lies back. “Are you staying tonight?”

“Of course,” Wilson replies, adjusting House’s blanket. “Is there anything you need?”

House gives him a look so full of drugged-up gratitude that it will keep Wilson warm on many future cold nights. “No, if you’re staying then I’m good.” He closes his eyes and is almost instantly asleep.

Wilson smiles to himself despite the tears forming in his eyes. He scoots the chair close to the bed and settles in; he _dares_ anyone to tell him to leave tonight.

EXIT STACY

It’s pure accident that he’s there when she finally leaves for good.

Her stuff had been gone for days, and in her absence Wilson had already all but moved in. House still needed someone there a good deal of the time, and Wilson of course was all too happy to oblige.

He’s just made an obligatory stop at home after work; Bonnie is not at all happy with the way things are going. But Wilson has been spinning it expertly; is he really such a bad person for wanting to help his best friend through a crisis? She has reluctantly been relenting, her complaints quieter and further apart.

And now that Stacy’s leaving, Bonnie will have even less room to argue. It’s only a matter of time before she leaves him, but with House’s situation he doesn’t even have time to pretend to care.

He’s coming up the sidewalk with groceries when Stacy comes out of the building. As they pass she spits out “He’s all yours now!” and keeps walking.

Wilson opens his mouth but doesn’t really have anything to say. He lets himself into the apartment and calmly puts the groceries away. In his mind Stacy had already been gone, so seeing her again is a mere blip; but he doesn’t know how this little reappearance might have affected House.

He finds House lying across the bed, staring at the ceiling. “…What was that about?” he asks cautiously, clicking on the bedside lamp.

“She’s gone for good,” House replies evenly. “Again.”

Wilson sits on the edge of the bed, unsure what to say. It’s not that he can’t lie to House; he just can’t bring himself to say he’s sorry. “Are you all right?”

House is quiet for a minute. “I will be. It can’t be any other way, so I’ll just have to be….I guess.”

Wilson hears something in House’s voice -- something he always hears in his own. Something he’s never before heard in House’s. “Don’t give up.”

House looks over at him with a confused look on his face. “I don’t plan to.”

Wilson smiles. _You say that now because you’re angry._ “Good.”

He can see in House’s face the emotions that are battling in his head. “Are you staying here again tonight?”

“Yeah.”

House _almost_ seems concerned, but guilt over Wilson’s home life isn’t going to help either of them. “Are you hungry?” he asks quickly, before House can ask any questions of his own.

House sighs. “Starving.”

“I’ll get started. …Why don’t you come out to the living room?”

House seems hesitant but acquiesces. Wilson doesn’t help him up, but he does stay alert as he listens to every move House makes. Once House is settled on the couch and is calling for a drink, Wilson can relax and start cooking.

Keeping House alive is doing wonders for Wilson’s sense of self-preservation. No one has ever truly _needed_ him like this before...well, no one he felt he could actually help. Or maybe it had just been so long since he _wanted_ to help someone.... Well at any rate, for House to need him the way he does right now is invigorating.

He doesn’t feel guilty about it because House honestly and truly does need a friend; and Wilson is House’s only friend. So through the immovable force of logic, House _needs_ Wilson.

Wilson hums a little as he pulls dishes out of the cupboard.


	4. since they can come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> last pre-canon part, if that matters

SONG  
_[insert lyrics to your chosen song here]_

Since he first heard the song it's mesmerized him, and especially now, it has a strange comforting quality to it.

The song doesn’t even make any sense, not that he’s ever been able to tell. But something about the woman’s part…her voice just grabs him and puts him in a trance.

Staring out the windshield, he momentarily forgets about the gun in the glove compartment. 

He’s been driving around with the gun in there for weeks now. It’s a threat and a comfort, especially in the middle of a long day filled with people he can’t save and work he can’t get done because he’s too preoccupied with the thought of death in his glove box.

He’s not going to do anything right _now_ \-- House is expecting him to show up with supper soon. 

So for now he’s “safe,” though he’s still thinking about it. He’s always thinking about it.

Her voice makes him want to die, but in that good, pure way; makes him want to _escape_ more than “die” perhaps.

Besides, if he died, he wouldn’t be able to listen to the song anymore.

He turns into the first burger place he sees and presses **repeat** on the CD player.

CUTTING BOARD

He brings the cleaver down hard, splitting the onion in two.

Wilson enjoys cooking. Really he does.

But there are days like this -- and there are many of them -- when he enjoys absolutely nothing, and everyone is absolutely horrible, and the nameless dread threatens to consume him. 

The cleaver cuts cleanly through the newly-formed wedges of onion.

On these days, though, _everything_ is effort. Including suicide. 

Which sucks, because this is when he feels most like he could just give up and be fine with it. There’s nothing, not even House, that really makes it seem worth staying.

The onion is now being ruthlessly minced.

And yet here he is.

He stares without seeing at some spot on the counter, the knife starting to slice into the cutting board itself.

However many minutes later, he looks down and sees a huge mess of pulverized onion.

He can’t even remember what he was trying to cook.

… _House likes salsa,_ he thinks, grabbing a tomato.

INTERCHANGEABLE

Wilson slams the door and then leans back against it, shaking. He gradually slides down to the floor and sits there for at least ten minutes, staring at the opposite wall.

House has been particularly impossible lately. Nothing Wilson does or says or tries is worth anything, and House refuses to even try to feel better.

He needs to let off some steam. 

The well’s pretty much dried up at home for good, he figures. Anytime he tries anything, Bonnie snaps about how he only spends time with _her_ anymore if they’re fucking. Which he could ignore if they then actually _fucked_ , but no; she just turns over, he feels mildly guilty and annoyed, they both go to sleep angry.

He pulls a piece of paper out of his wallet. It has three phone numbers on it, but no names.

It never matters which one he calls, for they’re utterly interchangeable. Oh, they have their differences of course, physical and otherwise; but it’s utterly irrelevant which apartment he drives to.

Determined to not memorize the numbers, he picks one and dials. He’ll recognize the voice and adjust his personality as required.

“Hello?”

Wilson smiles; it’s the dumbest one, and she likes it rough. The perfect combination for what he needs right now. “Hey, you busy tonight?”

She giggles. “I have a feeling I’m going to be busy _very soon…_ “

He twitches at her awkward attempt at sexiness but ignores it, saying he’ll be there soon.

He glances in the rearview mirror and messes his hair up a bit; he loosens his tie for good measure. She likes to think he works _soooo hard_ and needs to release all that _pent-up aggression_ from a long day at work.

Driving across town, he feels better already. At first he felt guilty for using these women, but he was careful to only accept offers from ones who just want to have some fun and don’t expect him to leave his wife for them. 

Besides, they certainly seem to get some enjoyment out of the deal. 

At least there’s _one_ thing he knows he does right.

STRIKE TWO

Honestly, he hadn’t _expected_ House to offer to help him move, but…wow, this would be a lot less depressing with him here.

Bonnie’s staying with her mother for the weekend while Wilson clears out his stuff, and the house is disturbingly silent.

_“I’m getting divorced,” he said casually._

_“Finally,” House said with a roll of his eyes._

_“…Moving my stuff out this weekend.”_

_Silence, then: “Call me when you’re settled in, we’ll celebrate.”_

Of course House hadn’t offered to help because he didn’t feel he’d _be_ any help. He’s gotten slightly better with the whole feeling-useless thing, but Wilson still thinks he’s severely underestimating himself.

No rushing it, though. Might have helped if he had stuck with the physical therapy, but…well, that’s House. He’d rather deal with it alone, even if it makes him miserable.

Whereas Wilson would happily welcome company to deal with _this_. 

He sighs and tapes up another box of books. 

The marriage could have probably lasted another year or two if he hadn’t told Bonnie about the others, but really he’s gotten bored with it. When even adultery isn’t exciting anymore, it’s time to move on.

He does feel bad for hurting her, but he’ll pour out his guilt in alimony payments and be over it soon enough.

WELL-LIKED

Wilson has always enjoyed blowing his hair dry. The noise cancels out the world; whether it’s someone he resents in the next room or the silence of an empty apartment, with the sound of the dryer in his face he can’t hear any of it.

He clicks off the dryer and runs the brush through his hair a couple more times. He grabs the blue-and-yellow tie hanging from the shower rod and wraps it around his neck; a burst of self-loathing makes him tighten it until he chokes.

Seconds later he’s tied his thousandth Windsor knot, straightening it as best he can.

He stares at himself in the mirror and contemplates the day ahead. The co-workers’ faces that will light up when he arrives; the patients who will seem honestly comforted by his approach.

He has no idea why they like him. Why _anyone_ has ever liked him.

He doesn’t think he goes out of his way. He certainly doesn’t mean to trick anyone into thinking he’s something that he’s not. He’s just…polite. And kind when he can be, because why be mean for the sake of being mean? Although House has always seemed to enjoy it…

When Wilson looks in the mirror, he sees a pathetic, adulterous, hypocritical, weaselly closet case who should be long dead.

He has no idea what those _other_ people see.

He has no idea what the patients see, the ones who don’t seem to mind that they’re sick because _he’s_ the one that’s treating them.

He has no idea what those women see, the ones who don’t seem to mind that he fucks them and then avoids them out of shame of self-hatred.

He has no idea what House sees.

He has to believe that House sees the _real_ him, the one behind his inadvertent façade. He doesn’t believe that House would have had anything to do with him otherwise.

His spirits are momentarily lifted by the very idea of House.

Wilson wants to die so badly it hurts.

He tears his dark-rimmed eyes away from the mirror and heads to work.

RESIGNATION

He doesn’t meet House’s eye. He knows what House is going to ask, and he doesn’t have an answer.

“Why -- _why_ \-- WHY in the name of Christ are you getting married again?!” he barks. “Twice burned isn’t enough for you?”

Wilson likes House’s anger. It feels like House is jealous, and that gives him a sick thrill. “I just…”

“Why. Just give me one good fucking reason.”

He finally looks up. “I love her.” _She’s a decent enough distraction for now._

House rolls his eyes and sighs dramatically. “…I guess I can’t stop you.”

_Of course you can stop me,_ Wilson thinks, a tiny smile on his face. _Just tell me you don’t want me to get married again. Tell me you want me all to yourself, even if it’s just to buy food and watch bad movies with you and write you prescriptions, just say it I KNOW YOU’RE FUCKING THINKING IT GODDAMMIT JUST SAY IT--_

House does look as if that’s what he’s thinking. But House _always_ looks like he’s thinking, like he’s figuring something (or someone) out -- and usually he’ll tell that someone what he thinks.

But not with Wilson. Whatever conclusions he reaches with him, House keeps them to himself. Like Wilson isn’t worth testing out his own hypotheses on.

House sighs again, but this time with resignation. “I’ll go dig out my good suit,” he says, limping towards the bedroom.

Wilson waits until he’s gone, then puts his head in his hands.

He's just going to have to make this marriage work. On the off chance he survives to die naturally, he really doesn't want to die alone; so it's either die now or deal with a wife.

He can't help but feel he's taking the coward's way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idek if i ever REVEALED the song wilson's listening to. to me it's "e-bow the letter" by r.e.m. but i mean it can be any song that makes you feel like a combination of peace and shit.


	5. and go again,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of canon. *revs engine*

DETOX

After House leaves, bandaged hand in tow, Wilson sits down and stares at the X-ray.

He’s been hoping and hoping and hoping that House would lessen his Vicodin use over time, but the opposite is happening. 

Wilson waited too long to stop it, and if he forces House off of it now, House will kill himself, directly or not.

He could just stop prescribing it; stop making it so easy. But he’s wary of doing anything that might cause House to resent him; they’re closer than ever now that House has settled in to his misery, dragging Wilson along for company.

And what if House found someone _else_ to enable him? That just wouldn’t do, now would it?

He debates admitting to House that it was his idea, that he just wanted to see if House could stop. For House’s own good. Because he cares about him.

And then a few weeks later, after House would be done calling him a woman and swallowing three times the Vicodin in front of him out of spite, things could get back to normal.

Or he could just let it ride; it’s gone this far, might as well see how it plays out. Maybe House will realize something about himself; maybe he’ll see that he really does need to make some changes--

Wilson can’t even finish the thought. 

Nothing’s going to change, ever. This is life now. He either has to watch House die slowly from painkiller abuse, or watch him become a confused, broken mess.

At least with the Vicodin there’s a _semblance_ of stability; he’s still the same person Wilson’s always loved, he just takes a lot of pills and gets angrier a bit more quickly than he used to.

And he limps. But Wilson doesn’t really notice that anymore; it’s odder for him to walk alongside people who _don’t_ limp, as he has to consciously quicken his pace to keep up.

Wilson’s mind tries to twist it in a positive light. Hey, they’re _both_ dying slow deaths now!

He makes a noise between a sigh and a laugh and takes down the X-ray, prepared to wait it out. 

POWERFUL SOLACE  
 _The thought of suicide is a powerful solace: by means of it one gets through many a bad night._ \-- Nietzsche

He doesn’t know why he does it.

Every morning he opens his eyes, gets out of bed, goes to work.

Every night he comes home, gets in bed, closes his eyes. 

Oh, he has small bursts of happiness here and there. A good book, a good movie…

…House, in a good mood. Which happens _just often enough_ to keep Wilson from forgetting that it ever happens.

But there are some long-ass stretches of misery in between those good times. And yet he talks to patients, fills out paperwork, fills the car with gas, pretends to listen to his wife.

Why does he keep doing it? Why has he kept it up, all these years?

Some people might let themselves off the hook by convincing themselves that those good times, few and far between as they may be, are worth sticking around for.

Wilson knows better.

He’s just a coward.

A coward whose basic needs are met, giving his mind ample time to obsess over what might be and what never will.

He does usually manage to convince himself that House needs him; for all the arrogance and abuse, House does need him. And House probably _knows_ he needs him, which fuels the arrogance and abuse, and Wilson’s pretty much given up on it ever changing.

Wilson could leave, of course. He _could_ , whenever he wanted, if he could just get the courage.

It’s a comforting thought.

RUSH

He feels oddly okay about it all.

He got to stand up for House, and is actually suffering _visibly_ because of it. No silent misery for him this time; now people can _see_ how much he goes through.

It was quite a rush, standing up to those assholes, and it feels good.

This job is wearing on him anyway. And hell, maybe Julie will leave him. Maybe he can finally give up trying to do this “normal life” bullshit. Maybe this is the blessing in disguise he's been needing...

It’s tempting to whistle as he tosses shit he doesn’t even remember buying into boxes.

Of course House wanders by and wonders what’s going on. Wilson tells him with a proud sneer of his sacrifice, almost daring House to not care.

…But House does seem to care, and while he still bugs Wilson to do him a favor, he’s strangely subdued when he leaves.

Wilson watches him go with a chill.

Maybe House will pull them all out of this mess. Maybe he actually cares enough about Wilson, or his _own_ job at least, to _try_.

…What if House _could_ get rid of Vogler? It seems absurd, but he’s done more fantastic things. And Cuddy herself has a history of going out of her way to tolerate House’s bullshit. 

Wilson stares into his box of knickknacks, his rush gone, his thoughts clouded.

Maybe he shouldn’t finish packing yet. Maybe everything will be back to normal soon.

Now he doesn’t know _how_ to feel.

DECISIONS

If Stacy came back it would be good. Really. It would make it easier for him to spend time with Julie, as House’s attention would be focused elsewhere…

Wilson stifles a gag. It’s not that it’s _terrible_ spending time at home, it’s just…boring. Julie’s been drifting away for a long time already, and it’s so fucking hard to care.

But he has to try. This is the life he chose when he decided to live; this is the life in which he's stuck.

Except he never really _decided_ to live….He just keeps telling himself he really needs to _make_ that decision. Soon. And if he indeed does want to live, he needs to make some changes.

But he just keeps putting the decision off, and more and more years tick by, and he ends up in situations he despises with no clear way out but a bullet. And he has the bullets but not the courage; so here he sits.

He watches House when Stacy’s around. He can tell how much happier House would be if he had her back, if House would fucking _let_ himself be happy.

So he has no choice but to encourage it; that's an easy decision to make at least. There’s no reason for him not to support her return -- using her current marriage as an excuse would be a touch hypocritical.

And his only other reason, valid in his eyes though it may be, will go to the grave with him.

Another decision he’s never really made, just lived for far too long with.

 

TV DINNER

He watches the dinner rotate in the microwave. He didn’t even pay attention to what it was, just ripped something out of the box and hit some buttons.

When the buzzer dings and the light inside the microwave goes out, he stares at his reflection, comforted by the hatred he feels.

Julie’s “out” for the evening. He strongly suspects she’s fucking around, but he doesn’t particularly give a shit. Not because of the potential hypocrisy -- he just really does not care.

He almost wishes she would just end it, but then he would be alone again, and the cycle would just restart. 

So fuck it, let her screw around, as long as there’s someone else in the house.

Normally he would go over to House’s and spend the evening, if not the night. But House has been seriously pissing him off with his insistence that Wilson is cheating.

Just because Wilson has cheated during almost every previous relationship _does not necessarily mean_ he’s cheating now. And Wilson had always admitted it to House before, when House would inevitably figure it out. 

Why does House think Wilson would lie now?

He sighs and drops the tray onto the kitchen table with an unappealing **spat**. He flops and down and peels off the plastic to reveal--

\--well, he’s not sure. He grabs the box. “Country fried steak.”

_If you say so,_ he thinks glumly, tossing the box towards the trash can.

Without someone to cook for, this is how his meals go. He does enjoy cooking, but he hasn’t been able to really _cook_ for just himself in years. Way too much effort involved there.

Fortunately, this evening is a relatively rare blip. Usually he’s sitting across the table from Julie, eating something either he cooked or she brought home. It’s frosty and it’s sullen and it’s not much fun, but he likes having someone to eat with.

Other nights he’s sitting next to House on House’s couch, eating something either he cooked or brought over with him. It’s familiar and it’s comfortable and Wilson wants to be there now more than anything--

Wilson stops mid-chew and holds the steak knife against his throat. He considers trying to sever his jugular with it; he considers just making a surface scratch. But like always, he does neither, and is merely comforted by the weight of the serrated edge against his skin.

Because he _could_ move his arm quickly backwards, fast and hard, see what damage he could do. He could do that, right now, and no one could stop him.

He breathes slowly, feeling his blood pulse against the knife blade. He could let it out, spill it all over this shitty microwave dinner that’s sitting on the shitty lacy tablecloth his shitty wife bought.

The knife edge presses into his flesh, hard enough to leave gravy-filled dimples behind when he goes back to quietly eating.

It’s not five minutes later that he hears the garage door. He raises his eyebrows in surprise but otherwise doesn’t react.

When she comes into the kitchen and sees him sitting there, he says, “I didn’t think you were coming back until late, so I didn’t wait for you.” His voice is polite but not what one would call loving.

She looks him in the eye for a moment but doesn’t say anything, so he shrugs and continues eating.

“James I’m seeing someone else,” she says, quickly, almost as if it’s one word: _JamesI’mseeingsomeoneelse._

He stops, willing himself to keep looking at his food and not react. He wants to leap up, knock his chair over, knock the table over; wants to throw the food in her face and scream _“I knew it bitch! Thanks for saving me the alimony!”_

Instead he says, “You can have the house. I’ll set up payments.”

She starts to cry. _Cunt._ “James, I’m sorry, I--”

He throws the rest of the dinner into the sink and starts to leave the room. She grabs his arm and before he can yank it away she says, “I didn’t want this to happen!”

The last thing he wants to hear right now is her voice, especially if it’s only going to spout whines and cliches. “Let me go,” he says coldly, and she does. She looks at his neck and must see the gravy there; she opens her mouth to say something but he’s already left the room.

He tries to keep from whistling as he packs a suitcase. Paying off the mortgage on this house will be a small price to pay for an excuse to stay with House for a few days.

…If House will have him. But he’s pretty sure House will let him crash on the couch for a while; he crashes there all the time, it’s just that this time it’s not because of too many emptied shot glasses.

And what a relief to not have to pretend to care about this marriage anymore. He’ll be the first to admit that his heart wasn’t in this one, even at the start; he’ll also be the first to admit he doesn’t really know why he went through with it. It was something to do, he supposed, and sometimes being miserable was okay if it meant you weren’t alone.

He won’t be miserable tonight, though. He can hear Julie sobbing in the bathroom and flips off the door as he walks by.

SMILE

_Everything sucks. Might as well find something to smile about._

Wilson lies sprawled on the couch in the darkness, House’s words echoing in his head.

_He makes it sound so simple_ , he thinks bitterly. 

Then he starts to feel a little nauseous thrill. What if it _is_ that simple?

He wants to die; thinks about it constantly. And yet he doesn’t _do_ anything about it. Too weak.

But why the hell _shouldn’t_ he find things to smile about, then? When you want to die, what exactly can hurt you?

He briefly considers the biggest risk of all, then dismisses it with an audible scoff. Yeah, he _could_ just walk down the hallway and grab that brass ring; and he would also be immediately pulled under the carousel and maimed.

Well, that’s _probably_ what would happen…but he doesn‘t know f0r sure.

At any rate, _no!_ , that’s not something he’s ever trying unless he really is prepared to eat a bullet depending on the outcome.

His thoughts wander to his suitcase, tucked against the wall near the piano. He wonders if House has looked through it; if House has found the gun, tucked away at the bottom of a messy toiletries bag. Or the bullets, stuffed a bit more obviously in one of the inner pockets.

He’d be surprised if House _didn’t_ look through his stuff, but surely House would say something if he found any of that…

Wilson doesn’t know if he wants House to find it or not. He doesn’t know if he’d rather have House respect his privacy for once, or barge into his business like he always does; happily annoying and unknowingly comforting Wilson with the familiarity of it all, the implied interest in Wilson’s life.

It’s hard to decide on anything when you can’t decide if you want to wake up in the morning.

Wilson sighs and settles under the blankets; might as well just go to sleep.

He can worry about smiling tomorrow.

LAUGHTER

On the drive back from the hospital, Wilson starts to laugh.

House wants him to move back in. He _does_ , he all but admitted it, and it’s somehow the funniest goddamn thing in the world.

In fact, it’s so funny he’s nauseous. Still laughing, he pulls to the side of the road, throws open the door, and vomits onto the road.

His laughing fit finally quieted, he stares out the windshield at the setting sun. He thinks about Grace, already on her way to Italy; he thinks about his meager collection of belongings, already in storage. 

He doesn’t even know where he’s going right now, and he feels another giggle rising in his acid-soaked throat.

It would be pathetically easy to drive to House’s apartment, sheepishly say that yeah maybe he should move back in for awhile, at least until he finds a place…and then he could just never find a place, and House would let him stay there, and they could live in frat-boy bliss forever.

The thought frightens him in its potential contentment; he thinks of how _nice_ it felt to be at House's like that...how he would wake up in the middle of the night, miserable, then remember where he was and fall asleep feeling a little better.

He slams the car in gear, needing to distance himself from even contemplating such a thing. Down that avenue lies heartache, or happiness, or both, and Wilson can’t decide which he deserves.

He turns into the first hotel he passes, and pays for a week in advance. 

During the course of the elevator ride he manages to convince himself that he’ll figure out what he’s going to do before this week is up.

One week to figure it out.

He hasn’t been able to figure it out at any point in the past thirty years, but surely this one week will do the trick.

He almost throws up again in the hallway before he can get the keycard to work.

LIFEBOAT

Sometimes Wilson has to stop what he’s doing and close his eyes.

He imagines himself floating in a lifeboat, staring at a clear sky as he rocks gently back and forth.

Usually a few minutes of this are enough to calm him down, at least to where he can finish his work.

Sometimes it takes longer, and sometimes he imagines the boat slowly sinking beneath the water. 

Sometimes he falls asleep.

Today he rests his head on the file he’s been staring at for ten minutes and closes his eyes. 

He opens them when the lifeboat bumps into land.

Wilson cranes his neck backward and sees House staring down at him with a quizzical look on his face.

He pokes Wilson with his cane, and Wilson smiles.

He knows he’s dreaming when House smiles back.

House climbs into the boat with him and uses his cane to push off from land. They drift together, side by side, neither one saying a word.

When Wilson opens his eyes for real, it’s dark; he must have been asleep for over an hour.

He leaves his desk the way it is; there’s nothing there that can’t wait until the morning.

When he gets back to the hotel he takes a couple of sleeping pills and lies down, comforted by the false memory of House’s shoulder against his.


	6. as one brief hour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moving right along. I always thought I should flesh out the Tritter arc more, especially with it being a gold mine of angst, but I also kind of like seeing it in flashes of confusion and loathing and so whatever.

GUNSHOTS  
 _But to be in love is not the same as to love. One may be in love and still hate._ ~ Dostoevsky

Sometimes he hates House. 

Sometimes when he thinks about House, it’s like all of the love he harbors is chemically transformed into acid; an acid that burns but does not kill. 

He’s always felt justified in a bit of hatred; he feels like he’s put a lot into this friendship and gotten nothing back except his own unfulfilled desires.

Especially since the infarction. Wilson has done _so much_ for that asshole, and it’s gotten to the point that even House’s kindnesses towards him seem like mockery. 

Wilson has even taken to wondering if House is leading him on. Has House had him figured out all this time? Is he just taking advantage of Wilson’s feelings for his own amusement -- and would he toss Wilson aside if someone more interesting came along?

More and more often it’s hard for Wilson to remember the fun he’s had with House, the genuine smiles he sees that no one else ever does.

He’s thinking maybe House really doesn’t need him. Not anymore, at least. He’s long since adjusted to his crippled and cranky lifestyle, with Wilson hovering on the fringes like an unwanted puppy, spewing out pills and reassurances even when they aren’t asked for.

He’s probably long since become annoying, but he’s still _just useful_ enough that House doesn’t mind having him around.

These pathetic attempts to build up his worthlessness have been making it hard to concentrate on work, and he’s doodling circles on a patient file one afternoon when he hears gunshots.

It takes a moment for him to react; though his ears tell him otherwise, he knows that can’t possibly have sounded as close as it did. 

He calmly gets up and walks onto the balcony, refusing to process the shouts he can hear on the other side of the wall.

He walks just far enough into House’s office to see House on the floor. In the commotion no one notices he’s there, or that he backs immediately out, or that he goes back into his office, and sits back down at his desk, and starts doodling circles again.

If he’s doodling circles, he’s not getting the gun out of his desk drawer.

The circles lose some of their shape as his eyesight becomes blurred.

KETAMINE

He refuses to let House give up so easily.

He hates the idea of House in pain, but he likes the idea of House off the Vicodin too much to write another prescription just yet.

It’s been so much like old times here lately…. In some ways House has been even more insufferable than usual, but now he’s shoving his _happiness_ in everyone’s faces, and Wilson is more than happy to be annoyed by a House who’s cheerful for reasons other than just Wilson‘s annoyance.

It’s been such a relief for Wilson to see the relief in House.

And when House came to him, telling him the pain was coming back, Wilson’s heart froze and his immediate reaction was to shower House in pills. 

But he knows that’s not necessarily what’s best for House right now, even if _House_ thinks it is. 

And if House remains convinced that the treatment has failed and he needs the pills again, well then there’ll be no telling him otherwise, and he'll badger Wilson until he gets his way. Like usual.

But maybe House is just overreacting to a bit of pain after such a euphoric period of its absence; maybe he can adjust to taking _less_ pain meds at least.

At any rate it can’t hurt to let him sweat it out for another few days…

TRITTER

He sits at the desk in his hotel room, staring at the bottle of pills.

Why does this feel like he’s chickening out?

_Because it **is** chickening out._

The last few weeks are tangled in his mind, and as he tries to unravel them he tracks the headlights of passing cars below.

\---

The two signatures looked nothing alike. But he lied, lied without even considering the options, lied because it was the only option. He could tell the cop didn’t believe him, and he could tell it wasn’t over, and he spent that night much like this one, staring at traffic and trying to organize his thoughts.

\---

House seemed awfully flippant about Wilson’s lying to the cops for him. As far as House knows, Wilson _cares_ about his life, his career. Where does House get off just _expecting_ Wilson to give it all up for him?

…Well, he expected it based on over a decade’s worth of precedent. It’s just as much Wilson’s fault that House takes advantage of him like this. 

And the pain, oh the pain in House’s shoulder -- House’s _body_ feels remorse, even if his mind never does. It's a tiny comfort to Wilson, but a comfort nonetheless.

\---

He doesn’t know what to do, he has no idea what to do now. He thought he had done the right thing, he thought he was saving House _and_ everyone else; he’s risking himself here, too. And House just … and everyone else just …

Well really there’s only one solution now. Without Wilson, there’s no case, so clearly Wilson needs to buck the fuck up and do what’s _really_ right, but then Christmas Eve comes and --

\---

\--- _ **what the fuck** you do this instead of coming to me?!_ He wants to scream, to cry, to hold House, to hit him. _I’ve always been there for you, **I stayed alive for you** , and you fucking do this?_ He can't do anything. He can't do anything but leave, because he doesn't know what he'll do if he stays-- _I hope you do die, I hope you die and I’m going to blow my brains out right at your fucking funeral so everyone knows you killed **me** tonight, too--_

_\---_

_\--oh God I’m sorry I didn’t mean it I’m glad you’re alive and I’m here, for now, at least..._ He's relieved when he sees House in rehab, even though he doesn't really believe it, because if House is in rehab than in a sense House is okay, and when House apologizes it hits Wilson like a physical blow and he still can't get a grip on his thoughts -- _because whether you know it or not you need me and I don’t even care that you faked your way through it all like you always do because that’s who you are and if I had a problem with that I would have left you a long time ago--_

\---

And now here they are. Back to normal, as it were.

But Wilson’s still terrified, afraid that his friendship with House _won’t_ go back to normal, afraid that House will resent him; even though every time Wilson tallies it up in his head, House is just as much to blame for all of this as he is.

No matter. He can hardly breathe for the panic attacks, and if he’s not going to man up and do the job, then he’ll need some help to function.

And if things go okay, and they really _do_ get back to normal, a little extra help wouldn’t hurt then, either.

He swallows a pill, still staring out the window.

LISTLESS

The anti-depressants aren’t working.

Well…if they’re _supposed_ to make him spend entire evenings lying in the middle of the bed, staring at the ceiling, the television on mute -- well then they’re working like a charm.

Things have actually seemed all right with House, at least. Maybe even better than usual, like they’re trying to make up for precious weeks of lost screwing-around time.

It’s good, though. House doesn’t bother screwing with people he doesn’t like; and frankly, Wilson doesn’t, either. It’s much less effort to just be nice to people who aren’t worth the time for anything else.

He just feels … so … listless. Aimless. Rudderless. And he’s not going to find the answers in this damned hotel room, but he doesn't feel like looking anywhere else.

It doesn’t even bother him that he’s still here, that he apparently has no desire to move anywhere else. 

Well, why should he move anywhere else? This is a bit more expensive than an actual apartment, but he’s willing to pay for the luxury of not having to _find_ an actual apartment.

Alone.

He just doesn’t want to, and he doesn’t have to, and besides he’s gotten used to the hum of the hotel air conditioner. Hard to replicate that.

His cell phone rings, but it’s all the way on the end table. It’s just House, anyway. Probably hungry and bored, just like Wilson is. Well, he can wait a few more hours until Wilson’s done moping.

But surprisingly, Wilson’s reaching for the phone almost immediately. Somehow the thought of leaving this hotel room, buying food, and eating food with House doesn’t seem as laborious as it has all week.

It actually sounds -- fun.

Maybe the anti-depressants _are_ working.

Maybe House should try them.

NEAR DEATH (97 SECONDS)

He watches House sleep, knocked blissfully unconsciousness by the extra pain meds. Struck by this turn of events, he turns the clipboard over and over in his hands.

House has long played rather loose with his life, obviously, but such a blatant disregard for it...

It wasn't a suicide attempt _proper_ , of course, just House's near-fatal curiosity; but it's still a hell of a lot closer than Wilson's ever gotten, and he's fidgety with jealousy.

And then that flippant little comment. ...Or _was_ it flippant? Was it maybe more genuine than House would ever let on?

And the knife-in-the-socket thing -- what if House understands more than Wilson realizes? And the...the words...

Damn House and his ability to just fucking do and say what he wants, Wilson scowls ruefully as he tosses the clipboard above his head. _Especially when it's exactly what **I** want to do and say._

"Asshole," he sighs affectionately, replacing the clipboard at the foot of the bed.

MISDIAGNOSED

Goddammit, why couldn’t the asshole have just been _happy_ he was going to fucking live?

The hypocrisy is not lost on Wilson, who nonetheless is incensed. He’s already taken some of it out on House, who deserved a fair amount of it; but now he’s back in his office, fuming.

He’s also trying unsuccessfully to keep the _what if_ s from crowding his brain.

Well, just one big “what if,” actually.

_What happens when he misdiagnoses the **other** way?_

He’s had to run multiple tests before, of course, and get second opinions; he’s had to express cautious optimism countless times. But he’s never flat-out _told_ anyone they were perfectly fine when they weren’t. 

Maybe he’s just been lucky; and if that happens, what then?

Most people would call what happened in this situation an “honest mistake,” but tell that to the person who thought they were going to live to see their kids graduate high school…

He rests his head in his hands, panicking over something that may never happen.

It _can’t_ happen… .He can’t put _other_ people’s lives in danger just because he doesn’t know if he wants _his_ anymore.

If things don’t change, he’s really going to have to do something soon…


	7. witnesses--

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All Amber All The Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HETERO SEX SCENE ALERT WARNING (lol i've had people tell me they were 'squicked' by it or whatever the fuck that word is so FAIR WARNING BOY PARTS TOUCH GIRL PARTS)
> 
> BUT LATER BOY PARTS TOUCH!!!! STAY TUNED

AMBER  
_And the hope is that it will be a material demonstration of why, when looking for a simile to persuade his listeners that he had really seen the glory of God, the prophet Ezekiel would have picked the image of amber._

He’s been struck by her from the start. 

When he first glanced in at House’s stupid little reality show, his eye had been instantly drawn to her. He’d dismissed it at the time; but the more he heard about her from House, the more intrigued he was. He’d talked to her a couple of times, and his “intrigue” had only deepened.

He had hoped that House would keep her, but no such luck; of course House couldn’t tolerate someone so much like him. _Welcome to my world._

Now he has to make a decision. She’s sitting on a bench outside, clearly upset; her face is wet, but she’s not crying, really. Just upset.

He walks over. “Mind if I sit down?” he asks.

She looks up sharply, but he’s pleased to see her features soften when she sees who it is. “Feel free,” she says, barely scooting over.

They sit for a minute before he speaks. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t need your pity,” she snaps immediately, then laughs bitterly. “You don’t deserve that. _I’m_ sorry. I’m just--I can’t believe he would hire--” She takes a deep breath. “Whoops, almost sounded _way_ too bitchy there.”

He can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic. “It’s all right,” he says in his most understanding voice. “I’m used to bitchy.”

“I bet you are.“ She looks at him, closely, seemingly for the first time. “I would ask you what you see in him, but I fear that would be rude.”

He shrugs. “I’ve been asked it a thousand times before. I’ll let you know if I think of an answer.”

She smiles. “Are you going to ask me out or what?”

He smiles. “I was thinking about it.”

“Awesome.“ She stands up and grabs his hand. “Let’s go now.”

He lets her lead him towards the parking lot. “Where are we going?”

“I don’t know, you’re supposed to decide that,” she says, pulling him along. He opens his mouth to reply when she adds, “I want Mexican.”

He tries to get the goofy smile out of his system while she can’t see his face.

TAKEN  
_The ancient Lithuanians told their children that amber came from the palace of a mermaid, called Jurate, who was punished for falling in love with a handsome fisherman: she lost him in the same storm that smashed her home into pieces._

He has a history of waiting for the other person to make the first move; even when he knows it’s a sure thing, he waits for an unmistakable sign. Usually, though, once that first move is made, he takes over; usually they _expect_ him to take over. Even the ones that liked it rough expected him to be in charge, and he always fulfilled his duty as required.

But Amber is a whirlwind of hands and lips and legs; from the moment she grabbed him by the tie and kissed him to the moment she pushed him onto the bed and straddled him, _she_ was in charge.

She’s still in charge now, rolling her hips in a way that apparently makes him hit all the right places, with barely any thrusting apparently required by him.

He would feel superfluous, except she’s constantly kissing him, looking him in the eye, moaning appreciatively when his hand roams over her breast. 

He’s never felt so -- _taken_ before, and it’s overwhelming him a way he wouldn’t quite understand if he _could_ think. 

It’s threatening to overwhelm him too soon, in fact, and he urges her onto her back. She murmurs a slight protest before he spreads her legs and plants a thumb firmly on her clit. The direct hit makes her back arch and her hips press into the bed, and he swears she seems surprised as he kisses her, devouring her mouth, her neck, her breasts, moving his thumb in perfect rhythm until she gasps sharply. 

He pushes back inside of her while she’s still shuddering, moaning into her neck as she cries out. She grabs his hair and pulls his head back, sucking desperately at his neck as he thrusts, holding onto him tightly, her thighs digging into his sides, still light-headed from her own orgasm as he stills inside of her with a shout.

He pulls out and cleans up just enough to be decent before he collapses next to her. She’s looking at him with eyes that carry a potentially scary message, and he keeps his closed for fear they’ll say it right back. He’s said it so many times in his life that he doesn’t know if he can mean it anymore; and for the first time in a long time, he _would_ mean it.

She doesn’t seem too concerned about it at the moment, at any rate. She wiggles herself into his embrace, and he pulls the covers over them both and holds her close.

PARADIGM SHIFT  
_Nowadays amber is often seen as a poor cousin to the other treasures of the jewel box. ... But accident, history, and some remarkable physical qualities have meant that it has sometimes been valued more highly than gold._

They’ve been seeing each other for just a couple of weeks when Wilson does something with Amber that he’s never done with anyone else.

He tells her about House.

They’re huddled under a blanket one night, trying to find something interesting on television, when Wilson’s cell phone rings. He tries not to blush as he makes up a reason why he can’t bring supper over; Amber’s watching him with an amused little smile on her face.

“So how long are you with someone before you tell _him_ about it?” she asks, still smiling.

“Usually right away,” he replies, turning his phone over in his hand, “because…” _because…it usually doesn’t matter? Usually I would be on my way to his house at this point? Usually I wouldn’t give two shits about the person I’m with…?_ There seems to be no non-awkward answer to the question.

He glances at her, and something in her expression moves him. She hasn’t once gotten annoyed with him over House -- and while it’s only been a couple of weeks, there have already been several instances where any _other_ woman he’d dated would have become livid that he wasn’t throwing the world over for her.

So he starts talking. He tells her about the dustup in New Orleans, about the late-night phone calls and weekend road trips; about his divorces, and working together at the hospital, and House’s infarction, and Tritter, and everything. All the love and all the frustration must be apparent in his voice, but he doesn’t try to hide any of it. He fits two decades’ worth of history in an hour, and she listens to it all.

When he’s done he’s afraid to look at her. He’s not sure what he meant to accomplish by telling her all that, but it felt good to say.

She doesn’t say anything, but after a minute she scoots closer to him on the couch and wraps her arm around his. “Thank you for telling me,” she says softly. He nods, and she smiles that smile again. “You know I’m not out to steal you from him, right?” He must get a panicked look on his face, because she continues quickly. “I mean -- he obviously means a lot to you. And I know you mean a lot to him. And I can tell that it’s caused…problems for you. In the past. Relationship-wise…

“…And I just want you to know, _now_ , that I won’t be like that. I may be a bitch, but I'm not _that_ kind of a bitch. Now, that being said....Well, I can’t promise I’ll make it _easy_ for him,” she adds with a playful glint in her eye. “I mean, I do see some potential for fun here…”

He looks at her in wonder. She’s _okay_ with House…? Is it because she knows House, or because she really likes Wilson that much, or because she‘s that perfect, or…

…or does it not really matter _why_? Maybe he should just relax and see the potential for fun as well. He’s never really been able to do that before, and damn it sounds wonderful…

“I’ll tell him…soon,” he says confidently, wrapping an arm around her shoulder.

“Wimp,” she replies teasingly, resting her head on his shoulder.

PROXY GEM  
_In ancient Lithuania people called amber 'gintaras,' meaning 'protector' -- the Russian word янтарно has the same origin..._

He now knows it is possible to be sick from realization.

Since House left the restaurant so hurriedly, it’s all become clearer and clearer. He watches Amber closely, and in her every movement he sees House. Every time she speaks, he hears House.

He tries to keep a conversation going and rationalize this relationship simultaneously. 

He did fall for her awfully hard and rather quickly, but -- it’s not like he’s never experienced love at first sight before…

…

_Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck._

What can he do? It’s not fair to her if he stays just because she reminds him of House. 

But is it _only_ because she’s like House? He thinks about the time he’s spent with her, and how he’s felt. He’s felt damn good, to put it mildly, and he goes for days at a time without serious thoughts of suicide.

That means something, surely….All these years with House have only made him _more_ suicidal. And still, he doesn’t regret sticking by House for all this time...

…They certainly have stuck together, haven’t they? For all the shit they’ve gone through, they’re still as close as ever. That must mean something, too.

It _could_ mean that a relationship with a female House might not be such a bad thing.

She’s certainly seemed happy with him….If she wasn’t, she wouldn’t stick around. He loves that about her…and it truly does feel like _love_. She’s so different from any other woman he’s been with; he feels like she needs him, but for nothing more than companionship and affection. And she wouldn’t exactly wither away without him -- she just likes being with him.

So it seems, anyway. He doesn’t presume to know her heart, though she certainly isn’t shy about speaking her mind.

She doesn’t need him to protect her feelings -- hell, she’s probably figured it all out herself, and she just has a _slight_ edge over House when it comes to tact.

So…yeah. There’s nothing wrong with this. Maybe her House-like qualities are what drew him to her, but he’s falling in love with _her_. Is love any less “real” because of the reasons for it?

By the time they leave the restaurant he feels much better, and a part of him is even looking forward to agreeing with House…

LOVED  
_Amber is lighter than seawater, but only just._

Life is amazing.

House is flat-out fucking _jealous_. And what’s so great about _this_ jealousy is that Wilson actually loves the person he’s using to make House jealous. Actually, no, scratch that -- he’s not using her for that at all. Never was. 

He didn’t plan any of this. He just happened to find someone to really love, who loves him and is even willing to put up with House because she understands how much Wilson loves _him_ and -- they _fight_ over him. 

He’s never felt so loved, especially by House.

Wilson has eaten so many canaries he can hardly purr.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THAT WASN'T SO BAD WAS IT
> 
> Also: All italicized intro text is taken from _Jewels_ by Victoria Finlay.


	8. just

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of Amber, and of canon.

CRASH

He walks slowly out of House's office, less than reassured, still unsure how all this came to be; how he ended up here, in this hospital, in this life. How--how had he been so happy such a short time ago, and now--now?

What the fuck _happened_?

He tries to breathe, tries to walk without stumbling.

It will be okay. It has to be okay. House will fix it.

Wilson freezes in the hallway.

What if House _could_ remember? What if there’s one key piece of the puzzle, locked in House’s mind?

_But what if it kills him?_

_But it won’t,_ it won’t, House always figures it out, _he can fix things like this--_

Wilson ignores the glances of passersby as he stares wildly at the floor.

_What if they both die?_ What if she dies? _What if he dies?_

_They won’t! House can still fix this!_

What if he doesn’t?

Miserable and shaking, Wilson imagines all of the pills and poisons, scalpels and sharp edges all around him. 

He should just do it now. If he’d done it before they wouldn’t be going through this -- _she_ wouldn’t--

_No! She’ll need you when she’s recovering!_ His inner voice is sounding more desperate as the seconds pass. 

House could at least try…

Would House do it? He had offered to do it earlier…would he still be willing to do it? 

Wilson can’t think straight. All he knows is that there’s a possibility, _a possibility dammit_ , and what if it’s the answer to everything?

He’s done so much for House, surely House can do this for him. It can all still be okay.

He has to try. House has to try. 

He turns around, fighting the urge to vomit.

DEATH

He’s gotten so used to the idea of his own death that it’s like he forgot it could happen to other people.

People he loves.

He’s worried about House over the years, of course, has tried to fend off death when he could and hoped for the best when he couldn’t. 

But House remained alive; though each year that Wilson worries about House’s life probably shaves one off of Wilson‘s, _House is still alive_.

Amber is not.

He had never worried about Amber dying. He can’t recall it having entered his mind even once. She was confident and healthy, and she didn’t need anyone. And once he had accepted that someone like that could love him, she had seemed quite happy with him.

No longer. She was dead, gone to the place he’d longed to be for most of his life.

Of course the obvious option occurs, and he thinks of House, and of what House would do without him.

He thinks of what he and House have been through; what House has put him through. How much of his life has been spent _worrying_ about House and House’s problems, when House has so rarely seemed to care about Wilson’s.

Whenever Wilson worried about House, he could pick up the phone or drive across town and reassure himself. Or he could sweat it out and just wait for House to walk into work the next day, and let that beautiful feeling of relief wash over him.

He’d gotten addicted to that feeling over the years.

Now he does the same thing, for as confused and hurt and angry as he is, he can’t shake the need to see if House is still alive.

And he is. He looks stable but incredibly pathetic; and even though he is asleep, he looks immeasurably sad.

Cuddy is curled up, asleep, in the chair next to him. Wilson willfully ignores the pang of jealousy that stabs his already broken heart.

Even in the current circumstances Wilson longs to go to him, but he is frozen by what he sees.

Actually he doesn’t _see_ it, but he can sense it -- Death is there, waiting for House, just like Wilson has always felt it waiting for him. 

All the other times he’s worried about House pale in comparison to this moment, when he honestly feels as if he is about to watch the person he’s built his life around die in front of his eyes.

It feels like an eternity but can’t last more than five seconds, because before Wilson can move or speak or react, House’s eyes open. 

Wilson blinks and Death is gone.

House looks him in the eye, clearly alive, and Wilson turns away.

He doesn’t know what he’s going to do but right now he just has to get away. Out of this hospital, out of this life, before anyone can catch him and spew their phony condolences.

House is lying there because of him. Death almost took House because Wilson put him in Death’s way -- it’s irrelevant at the moment that _House_ started this whole process. No, it’s not _irrelevant_ \-- but it’s something Wilson can’t process right now. 

He can’t process any of it. He doesn’t know what to do. His brain has checked out, so his body uses physical memory to head back to Amber's apartment.

NO OUTLET

There's no coming back from this. 

Amber’s dead. She’s dead because she loved him; dead because _he_ loved House.

Part of him is angry with her. He wants to grab her and shake her; hold her face in his hands and bury his face in her hair and yell _House could have sat in that bar all night. He could have taken a cab. He could have taken the bus. **You didn’t have to go get him just because he called!!!**_

Part of him is angry with House. He wants to grab him and shake him; bury his face in House‘s neck and scream _Why were you even out? You could have gotten drunk at home. **Why couldn’t you have just taken care of yourself for once**?!?_

But neither of those people is here right now, which is fine because it’s _himself_ he’s most angry with. 

He can’t forget the look in House’s eyes when he thought Wilson valued someone’s life over his; the hurt and the _acceptance_.

He already knows it’s what he’ll see when he dies.

He can't forget the look in Amber's eyes after he turned off the bypass; the love and the ... well, the _acceptance_. The forgiveness. She seemed so at peace with it all; he's almost jealous. 

This is it. He won’t recover from this. He’s been dragging himself along for forty years and _finally_ , finally it’ll be done soon.

He actually feels some relief, and he presses his nails into his right arm to focus.

If he can push House away, he’ll be free. He has absolutely no faith that he’ll be able to do that, but he has to _try_. _He has to try._

He shouldn’t even still be alive at this point. He certainly can’t be for much longer. How could he ever justify it? 

He should do it now. He could. He could do it whenever he wanted.

He stares at Amber’s perfume bottle on the dresser, his leg bouncing up and down, his heart pounding and his nails drawing blood on his arm.

He has to do it before he sees House again. He hasn’t seen him since that night, and he knows if he sees him again his nerve will be lost. 

It’s best if House thinks Wilson hates him. Everyone else probably thinks Wilson hates him… _everyone else_. Fuck them all. Every single last one of them and their fake fucking concern for--

He’s dug so deep into his arm he actually cries out. He lies back on the bed, too trapped inside his anger and despair to move. 

The thought of House (and _everyfuckingoneelse_ ) believing that Wilson would really be mad at him for _that_ \-- for basically being part of a series of horrendous coincidences -- like some fucking ten-year-old with no cognitive reasoning skills… 

He can only imagine the things being said. The fake expressions of sympathy; the sincere if meaningless expressions of sympathy. Probably more than a few snickers that the bitch got what she deserved...

The ones closest to the situation are probably waiting for him to come back, trying to convince House to say he’s sorry; assuming Wilson will forgive him if he does.

But there’s _so much more_ to apologize for, don’t they see that? _Don’t they see?_

Maybe he _should_ go back, give one last fuck-you. Okay, his _only_ fuck-you.

God he’s been a pussy for so long.

He closes his eyes and wonders if he’ll have the guts. To say _fuck you_ , to say _I’m leaving_ , to say _I never loved you House_ …

At least he’s got nothing, and nothing to lose.

ALONE

It’s not so bad, this isolation thing.

He goes out once a week, to get a few supplies and sit through the support group he only signed himself up for so he’d have an excuse to leave the house occasionally.

Sometimes someone he barely likes from the hospital will call or show up with condolences or food, and he tolerates them because he just doesn’t have the heart to tell them to fuck off.

None of them has mentioned House. Not once. He’s dying to know if House is talking about _him_ , but he doesn’t dare ask. If he asks, House will find out, and it’s best at this point if House gets used to the idea of being without him.

House of course has called countless times and stopped by once, but Wilson has managed to deflect him. He _has_ to keep House away, or he’ll break. And this is the best time for him to die and get it over with; if House thinks Wilson is lost to him already, it won’t hurt as much when he’s lost to him for real.

He supposes. Not that he’s really made much effort to jump on the suicide train recently -- he’s too damn tired. And really, it’s kind of nice to have no patients to worry about; no people to fake politeness around; no reason to give a shit about anything really.

He’s free to read, watch television, work through the puzzle books he buys on his weekly grocery trips. 

And if he indulges in the odd fantasy here and there, who cares? There’s no one around to feel embarrassed in front of. No one to even suspect that he has silly visions of House knocking on his door again, and of letting him in this time.

Stupid visions. He _should_ he having visions of how he’ll kill himself, but there’s always tomorrow for that. If nothing else he’ll probably just get the impulse one day and do it without really thinking.

In the meantime, he can hunker down in this empty apartment with his memories and just let the minutes tick by.

OLD HABITS

He’s almost run off the road twice because he can’t stop looking over at House.

If anyone happens to have a camera trained on him, recording his blatantly longing glances, he’ll say it’s because he needs to make sure House is still breathing. That he, you know, doesn’t have a reaction to the sedative.

Actually, of course, he has to get his fill of looking freely at House before House wakes up, because he _cannot_ let House think he cares. He’s done well to stay away, and really this whole trip is a mistake.

So why’s he driving this car then, with his erstwhile best friend in tow? 

…For the friend’s mother, of course. She obviously didn’t know about Wilson’s grand plan to dump House and die, so he supposes he can’t blame her for fucking that plan up.

He hates how good he feels right now, just having House close again. _Hates_ it, hates it so much he’s sorely tempted to run the car into a tree.

But he doesn’t, he just drives along at a reasonable speed while House dozes away next to him.

He’s determined to not show his hand. He _can’t_ , dammit! House is just going to have to learn to live without him…

… _Wow, how arrogant is that?_ he marvels. House has been without him for months and hasn’t curled up and died yet -- hell, maybe House really doesn’t miss him all that much. 

Maybe what House misses is having someone to control, to cater to his every whim, to abuse and mock and --

No, that’s not fair. House risked his life to save Amber, and as painful as the entire ordeal has been, a tiny selfish part of him is glad. That one act proved what House hadn’t been able to for decades -- that he --

\--loved Wilson.

_Dammit!_ Wilson furiously rubs his moistening eyes. It would _not_ do to have House wake up and see him like this.

He’ll enjoy this last bit of time with House, even if he can’t let House see it. 

Yes. This is a _good_ thing, the perfect excuse to spend a last day with House.

He just can't let House know he's enjoying it.

ADMIT IT

Wilson is in hell.

He should never have agreed to bring House here.

He was just starting to maybe be able to get used to the idea of possibly never seeing House again, and now all of the emotions are back on the surface, white-hot and looking for blood.

House is barking at him, and Wilson is barking right back.

Of course House knows why Wilson pushed him away; House knows everything. As long as it serves his purposes; as long as it proves him right about what he already thinks he knows.

Now he’s yelling at Wilson to admit that he’s right, to admit that Wilson pushed him away because he’s afraid of losing the person he cares about the most.

To admit that that person is House.

He wants to punch House, punch him right in his know-it-all face.

He wants to tell House he has no idea how close to being right he is.

House is repeating the phrase like a petulant child, right in Wilson’s ear.

The sound of House’s voice mutates into a raging locomotive, threatening to run right over him if he doesn’t. **Do. _Something--_**

He grabs the bottle without thinking, hurling it across the room. It shatters the stained-glass window before he even realizes it was ever in his hand.

He stares at the broken glass, calmer in spite of himself.

“Still not boring,” House says.


	9. hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SLASH STARTS HERE if that's what you've been waiting for. *whispers* boys kiss!!!!!!!!

ULTIMATUM

He’s spent the longest evening of his life agonizing over it, and he’s finally given himself the ultimatum. 

He gathers his nerve as he packs a few essentials in his bag; checking that the safety is on, he shoves the handgun deep in the side pocket.

It was obvious how much House had been missing him, and Wilson can’t shake the idea that maybe he can grab a bit of happiness after all. And if there’s just a _sliver_ of a possibility, why not try for it? If he’s rejected, then he can die with full confidence that he’s doing the right thing.

It’s win-win.

It’s after midnight by the time he approaches House’s apartment, but there’s still a light on inside. He knocks with more confidence than he feels, comforted by the contents of the bag slung over his shoulder.

House lets him in. He’s obviously not nearly as drunk as Wilson expected him to be, which makes Wilson’s job a bit tougher. The eyes that look into his are far too sober, and there’s some sort of naked sincerity in them that immediately frightens Wilson toward the door.

Fuck that the alternative is death, he can’t do this. Best to not start this, anyway. He shouldn’t have come here, he shouldn’t have let House stop thinking he hated him--

His hand is shaking on the doorknob when House says his name.

He stops, listening to House limp up behind him. He should leave, he should get out, he’s fucked it all up, he should open his bag and --

House grabs his shoulder and turns him around; he falls back against the door with a thud.

House stares at him with an almost frightened look on his face; what _he_ has to be frightened of, Wilson has no idea. 

Wilson is so terrified his mind is racing, he’s thinking a thousand thoughts at once. He imagines pulling the gun out and using it right now, but he remembers very distinctly putting the safety on, and he’s nowhere near slick enough to get the safety off in time and House would grab it from him and then he would know Wilson was crazy and--

Wilson’s mind comes slamming to a halt when House kisses him. He pushes Wilson gently against the door and _kisses_ him, firmly, and when Wilson’s mouth opens in shock he pushes his tongue into it, and Wilson responds in kind because his mind may be gone but his body knows what to do.

Until House pulls back, and Wilson’s body gives out as well, dropping him to his knees in a dizzy freefall. He hears his name again, even more urgently this time; he grabs House’s leg, and even though his vision is blurred he looks upwards in an attempt to signal that he’s all right.

And maybe he is all right. Who the fuck knows at this point.

ONE MOMENT

For just this one moment, everything is Okay.

He presses his cheek against House’s chest until the other man’s heartbeat is ringing in Wilson’s ears. 

House makes a sleepy noise of comfort and runs a hand through Wilson’s hair, and Wilson almost purrs.

He has never felt this at peace, and he wishes he didn’t have to fall asleep, because he knows that when he wakes up it will be different. 

He will remember the last time he felt anywhere near this good.

He will remember all that he has to lose.

But right now he is able to hold House tighter and push those thoughts away, and feel truly content for the first time in his life.

HOLY GRAIL

He lies there for at least an hour before House wakes up.

He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t want this -- or at least, he shouldn’t _have_ this, not like this, not with the route it took to get here.

Maybe he’s overthinking it anyway. Maybe House _was_ drunker than he thought last night, and this morning it’ll be different, and House will be like ‘whatever, here’s your bag, just go.’

When House blinks awake, he looks briefly at Wilson then shuffles out of the room. 

Wilson listens to House move around the apartment, wondering if he should leave. He’s still lying there, trying to decide, when House returns, drinking from a bottle of water. He flops back down on the bed and offers it to Wilson, who drains half of what’s left.

They lie silently for a few minutes, Wilson somehow a perfectly content nervous wreck, when suddenly House says, “I missed you.” He turns over and kisses Wilson’s neck, balling Wilson’s shirt in one fist. “I missed you so fucking much--”

Wilson stares at the ceiling. He wants this so badly. And the thing is, Amber would forgive him. Amber would _want_ him to have it. That’s what makes it so much worse…

He shoves House onto his back, muffling the startled look on his face with a kiss, a _real_ kiss, a kiss twenty fucking years in the making, a kiss full of love and anger and sorrow and resentment and regret and forgiveness; and thankfully House kisses him back just as fervently.

He’s getting hard, and he can feel House getting hard in return; and when he grabs House it’s like touching the goddamned Holy Grail, and House gasps and his hands are on Wilson’s back and in Wilson’s hair and Wilson can’t stop kissing him. He keeps kissing him even as he pulls out his own dick and holds them and thrusts until House cries out and comes all over Wilson’s hand and Wilson wonders if drinking it would give him eternal life.

Afterwards they lie loosely together, and Wilson doesn’t feel nearly as bad as he expected. He feels terrible, of course -- he knows he’s the scum of the earth. He doesn’t deserve to live.

But then again, who the fuck does? So he feels pretty good, considering.

EERIE CALM

He can't sleep.

Sleep seems like a waste, when House is lying right next to him; it's a much better use of his time to stare at the ceiling and listen to House breathe.

Well, not that he can really _hear_ House's breathing; if you can literally hear someone breathe like that you might want to have a doctor check them out. “Listening to so-and-so breathe” _sounds_ nice when referencing a loved one, though. It can fit quite poetically into one's musings. Whether it's literally true or not.

…

These are the thoughts that can run through a person's mind after five hours of staring at a dark ceiling.

It's been a full day and night and another day since he and House wordlessly took their relationship to that level he'd so long thought out-of-bounds; and it just seems like the world should be … different, somehow. The sky should be green and the grass should be blue, or cats should be flying or something.

Instead, everything feels distressingly the _same_. Except for the oddly upbeat mood House has been in the past couple of days, life doesn't seem to have changed at all. 

He turns to look at House, whose sprawl is barely contained on his half of the bed. 

_He's in bed with House. House is sleeping right next to him. He wants Wilson in his bed._ They haven't fooled around again, yet, but still – this is big. The world should be ending right now. Or exploding in a rainbow of glitter and gold stars.

But the world is dark, and quiet, and going about its regular business. The world doesn't give a shit.

He doesn't know if he can handle how _normal_ this feels. House didn't ask him to stay, and Wilson didn't ask if he could; he just didn't leave. And already it feels as if he's here for good, and that just seems like the most normal progression of events that could possibly happen.

He should really stop thinking about this and just let it _be_. If he thinks about _how_ – or _why_ – or – 

– or if he thinks about nights lying next to women he didn't love...nights lying alone in an empty hotel room...lying next to Amber...

...well if he thinks about any of that he'll just drive himself crazy.

As if House can sense Wilson thinking about people besides himself, his eyes open; he sees Wilson staring at him and half-smiles, half-frowns. “Something wrong?” he mumbles sleepily.

Wilson doesn't answer, not vocally; he moves closer to House, who wraps himself around Wilson's chest and makes a vague, happy, incredibly uncharacteristic noise.

_Yes and no,_ Wilson thinks, staring at the ceiling and holding House tightly as he drifts back to sleep.

GUN

Some nights when he can't get back to sleep, he sits on the couch and cleans his gun with infomercials on mute.

He’s had this gun for awhile now, though he’s never fired it -- and just recently he’s started worrying that if the time came, it maybe wouldn’t fire. Probably an irrational concern, but it’s not like he can just casually test it now, at three in the morning in House’s living room, to put his mind at ease.

He hasn’t been back to Amber’s apartment in over a week, not since coming over to House’s in the middle of the night -- no reason to go back, really. And House hasn’t asked him to leave. He goes to work like normal, leaving Wilson to clean his gun during the daytime.

It’s a nice gun; nothing really original, just a .45 service pistol, but there’s something so familiar about it at this point. It’s comforting, heavy and welcoming in his hand. Wilson keeps a full clip in it because that seems the thing to do.

House thinks Wilson has another job lined up; Wilson lets House believe this. House wants him to come back to work at his old job; old job, old hospital, old office. Wilson is considering it.

He holds the gun up in the light of the television. Looks good until later.

CONSUMMATION

House pushes Wilson onto his back and starts gnawing on his neck affectionately. 

As nice as it feels, Wilson can't help but think about House's leg in this position; it's instinct at this point. He starts to ask about it, and suddenly his head is being pulled back by the hair.

“I don't want you to hurt yourself....” he says in a strained voice.

House sighs and lets go. He leans in and softly kisses the skin around Wilson's right ear. “You've worried about me enough,” he says quietly. “Unless you have something to say that concerns _you_ , just lie back and shut up, okay?”

“I'll try,” he replies shakily. It's not like he doesn't _want_ to just relax and enjoy this – he's wanted it long enough. But it's hard to not worry when he's been worrying for so...long...

...Although the way House is sucking that one spot on his neck is certainly helping to distract him...

...And House _is_ an adult. If his leg hurts, _he_ can stop, or adjust, and it's really not up to Wilson to take responsibility for it.

Though Wilson shouldn't be completely passive here – he can at least grab House's shirt and tear it off. House smiles as if to say _that's the spirit_ and reciprocates.

Wilson closes his eyes and wills himself to relax and enjoy the feeling of House on top of him, between his spread legs, their chests pressed together, House's hands and lips in so many places at once.

He almost wants it to just be over with – it was all well and good to _fantasize_ about it for years, but now that it's actually happening so many things could go embarrassingly wrong that it's hard to not just wait for those things to happen.

But House seems to have every intention of taking his time, and well...that _means_ something; something more profound than Wilson can really process right now, but even in his confused state he knows that being treated this way by House is a Very Good Thing that he needs to savor and so he should just stop thinking already.

House must sense his distraction. “Are you okay?” he asks hesitantly. “This is...I mean, you _do_ want--”

Oh God he can _definitely_ not handle the rarely seen Unsure-of-Himself-House right now. “Yes,” he says firmly, pulling House back into a sloppy kiss. “Yesyesyesyes.”

House makes a comforting possessive noise in the back of his throat and wrestles the rest of their clothes off.

Now more eager for it just to happen than to necessarily be over with, Wilson grabs blindly for the tube of jelly on the nightstand (which _he_ had bought – how could House not know he wanted this?) and holds it up, with a look on his face he hopes is the right mixture of anticipatory and endearing.

House grabs the tube and kisses him, then moves back a little and encourages him to pull his legs back a bit.

Obviously he feels a bit exposed, and he really wants to close his eyes for this bit but House is looking right at him and he can't look away; and he feels House's fingers gently exploring, pushing, very very carefully but very very firmly--

He makes a noise when House's fingers push into him; a noise that he knows he should be embarrassed by, but he's not, because House is looking at him so kindly, and massaging Wilson's hip so soothingly with his other hand, and oh it just feels so nice.

House works him open much longer than is probably necessary, but Wilson enjoys the attention; and when he's ready, really ready and unwilling to wait any longer, he grabs the tube himself and starts to prepare House. 

House apparently can't tolerate more preparation than is necessary, for he soon grabs Wilson's wrist with a cut-off moan.

Wilson turns onto his side, which elicits a sound of disappointment from House; he grabs House's hand and says that he won't be able to relax unless he knows House will be comfortable. After a beat, House kisses his hand and starts to get into position behind him.

Though House's comfort is a big part of it, truthfully Wilson doesn't want to have to worry about House seeing his face ... this first time, at least. Whether his expression is one of bliss, pain, nirvana, despair, or any combination – he would prefer it remain unknown to anyone else.

He breathes shallowly, biting back whimpers as House pushes into him. It doesn't really hurt, not like he expected it to; but the mere idea of it threatens to make him black out.

When their hips are flush, House places an arm around his chest, kisses his neck and asks breathlessly if he's all right. 

Wilson stares unseeing at the wall, the sheets balled in one fist; he says yes, and leans back into House's embrace, and tilts his head so House can more easily kiss his neck.

House starts to move, and Wilson cries out with every thrust, louder and louder until House slides his hand down Wilson's chest and moves his fist in time with his hips and Wilson _comes_ , hard, gasping, shaking, pushing back against House's chest, momentarily unable to see.

House says his name, softly, repeatedly, as he wraps both arms around him and comes soon after himself.

Wilson lies there in House's arms, drained and at peace. He's vaguely aware of House moving behind him; of House asking something about a shower. 

Wilson declines; he doesn't trust this feeling to last and he wants to enjoy it. He turns over and burrows under the covers and against House, who seems perfectly happy to stay put.

As Wilson dozes off, with post-orgasmic optimism and his face pressed against House's chest, a tiny part of him wonders if maybe this feeling could, _possibly_ , _**maybe**_ , last.


	10. has gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good feelings can be as difficult to deal with as bad ones. LIFE CAN SUCK

AMBIVALENCE

He considers using the palm of his hand to check the skillet, but flicks some water onto it instead.

He's been agonizing over whether to tell House, the shiny possibility of Feeling Better taunting him from outside his cage. He had hoped for the longest time that the situation he found himself in now would have been enough to help him feel better, but somehow being able to touch House whenever he wanted, however he wanted, was making him feel worse.

It's impossible to rationalize -- he's hurt himself trying -- but that's how it is. Sitting at work, thinking about lying down next to House later that night, fills him with ninety-nine percent unfettered joy and one percent despair so dark he can feel the pressure in his bones.

As he spreads cheese on a tortilla, he imagines walking into the living room and saying, "Don't worry, I'm going to fix the quesadillas, but first I need to tell you something and I'm going to just keep talking so you don't get the wrong idea and I don't chicken out--" And then he would tell House how he's felt all these years, how hard it's been just _to be_ , and -- either House will play doctor or lover or friend, and comfort Wilson as required and decide just what Wilson needs to Feel Better.

Or House won't care...or he'll call Wilson a pussy and tell him to buck up and face it, and rattle off all the things _he_ has managed to live through, and ask Wilson what he has to be so depressed about anyway. And Wilson will be too wary of losing what little happiness he's got to bring up those things, and life will limp along worse than before.

Probably best to just let it lie.

Still, when House walks into the kitchen for a beer, Wilson has an impulse to just come out with it. _"House I think about killing myself every second of every day and it's really wearing on me please help--"_

When House smiles at him and grabs a handful of shredded cheese, Wilson says, "Did you want onions on yours?"

WARDROBE

He’s going back to the hospital in a week. He’s not sure how that happened.

Then a week after _that_ he has a conference to go to already, and a paper to present. He’s _really_ not sure how that happened -- some bullshit about it being the perfect way for him to get back into the groove, it’s a low-key gathering, blah blah fine I’ll do it if you stop talking.

He’s trying to figure out his living situation when House approaches him. “Hey, I was thinking…”

“Yeah,” Wilson says distantly.

“I’m not sure if you were going to go back to your place next week or…or whatever, but I mean, if you wanted to stay here…you’re more than welcome.”

Wilson looks at him slowly, gears turning. “Thanks,” he smiles. “You know, I’m--I’m still not sure myself what I’m going to do, but…I would like to stay here. A while longer, at least…”

House nods awkwardly, and Wilson continues. “I’ll go over to the apartment and get some stuff for work. Not a lot, just a week’s worth or so, I mean I can do laundry--”

“Want me to help?”

 _Oh, **now** you want to help_. “No no, like I said I’m not going to get a lot. If I--if I ever bring it all, well then I’ll need your help then, okay?” 

House smiles, and Wilson heads to Target.

He buys five ties for what one normally costs him, marveling at how they look pretty much the same. Five pairs of khakis, five dress shirts, some more boxers and socks and a couple belts and whiz bang a whole new work wardrobe.

He picks up some new toiletries, reminding himself to dump part of them out in the parking lot in case Dr. Sherlock does some investigating. But really a lot of things that seem blazingly obvious to Watson have passed the ol’ Doc by here recently these past twenty years, so he probably shouldn’t be too worried.

IMPULSIVE

He wonders if House expects him to clean.

Scratch that – he _assumes_ House expects him to clean. What he wonders is why House hasn't mentioned that he hasn't been cleaning.

He does the dishes and laundry when they pile up, but other than that pretty much everything stays where it falls. And it really doesn't bother him.

Of course now that he’s started work again, he sort of has an excuse…

Wilson stares at the papers on his desk.

It’s not quite the end of his first day back and he really doesn’t want to be here anymore. It’s not even that the work is hard, or that the people are annoying, he just _doesn’t want to be here_. Even though he _should_ stay here and get this stuff done, damn it, he doesn’t _WANT_ to.

So where _does_ he want to be? What _does_ he want to do?

Never one to dwell on the far future, he finds the idea no more appealing at the moment. But he can dwell on the next few hours, and in the next few hours he’d like to go out and have a nice casual dinner with House; and then he’d like to go back to House’s messy apartment and get soundly fucked.

And well what do you know? Those are things actually within his capacity to make happen.

He leaves everything where it is and swings across the balcony into House’s office.

House is stuffing things into his backpack, getting ready to leave. “Hey,” he says, clearly surprised to see Wilson. “I was just about to come by.”

“You want to go get something to eat?” Wilson replies, loosening his tie.

House frowns slightly. “I … thought this was going to be a late night for you.”

“Yeah well I decided it’s not. Let’s go out.” Wilson holds out his cane. When House grabs it, Wilson pulls him close into a kiss.

When they separate, Wilson holds him close and says quietly, “And then after we eat we’re going home and you’re going to fuck me until I can’t breathe, got it?”

House smiles slowly as Wilson picks up his backpack and swings it merrily over his own shoulder. “I could get used to this kind of impulsive Wilson,” he says as they leave the office. “Just don’t throw any bottles and get us kicked out of Applebee’s.”

SECRET

He’s a little disappointed in himself. It’s been so easy to fall back into the routine of work; chatting with the nurses, consoling the patients, smiling at the people in the cafeteria. People seem to be truly happy he’s back, and God it bugs him, but he just smiles and thanks them.

That would all be annoying enough. But then.

Then there’s the Sympathy Endurance. 

_Yes, it’s been tough. Yes, it was so sudden. Yes, she was taken so soon._

He has to thank these people for their concern, these people who didn’t know Amber, didn’t like Amber, don’t even know _him_. Definitely don’t like _House_ , the only _other_ person he loves.

The only remaining consolation he’s got.

The only thing he has to look forward to as he fake-smiles his way through the day.

Because he has a fun little secret running through his head as he pretends to listen to an unimportant part of a patient’s day.

Wilson loves to be fucked by House and he’s not ashamed of it. 

“How’s your leg feel?” has become code for “Does it feel okay enough to fuck?” and he asks it every evening after a mind-numbing day at work.

He loves shoving his own fingers inside himself, stretching himself for House; the look on House’s face when he does this, the _look_ on House’s face as he coats his cock with lubricant, waiting, _wanting_ to push that cock inside Wilson.

When Wilson feels ready he lies back, open and on offer; and House wastes no time claiming him, pushing his legs back and biting at his neck. Some nights it lasts longer than others; but it’s always a wonderful mess of sweat and moans and kisses, and House fills him with warmth and helps him forget that it’s getting cold outside.

On one particularly cold night, actually, he wakes up on his stomach with House draped across his back.

He makes a questioning noise. “You were shivering,” House answers quietly. “…Didn’t feel like going to get another blanket,” he adds.

Wilson nods, a chill passing through his body at just that moment. House holds him tighter, and Wilson wordlessly huddles into his embrace.

RELEASE

It hits him hard one evening while he‘s cleaning up the kitchen; harder than it has in a while. 

He goes into the living room, where House is simultaneously reading an article and flipping through channels. 

Sitting next to House on the couch, he wraps himself as non-awkwardly around him as he can. House seems surprised at first but quickly tosses the magazine and remote onto the coffee table.

He turns to better accommodate Wilson, who ends up between House’s legs, arms around House’s chest, with his face firmly planted against House’s neck.

And he starts shaking.

House holds him. Tightly. 

Wilson can’t really know why House thinks he’s so upset, though he probably thinks it’s something to do with Amber. And of course she’s part of it; a big part of it.

But it’s so much more. _It’s so much more, House,_ he thinks desperately as he holds on, as House rubs his cheek comfortingly against Wilson’s hair.

After a bit he settles down enough to pull back, and the look of concern in House’s face is striking. 

“You okay?” House asks gently, playing with Wilson’s sleeve. 

“Yeah,” Wilson says, leaning in for a kiss.

The kiss quickly turns more heated than he had planned; soon House is on his back, his shirt pushed up and his pants undone. Wilson kisses him desperately, hovering over him, using one arm both for balance and to rub along House’s chest and side. 

House moans into Wilson’s mouth, the moan deepening when Wilson’s other hand pulls out House’s cock and starts jerking him. House fumbles for Wilson’s fly to reciprocate, but Wilson ducks away, shaking his head with a smile. 

_This_ is the release Wilson needs right now. He spits on his hand and goes back to work, and when House tips his head back and lets out a short yelp, Wilson makes a small noise too. 

Before House has even caught his breath Wilson’s kissing him again.

Thus comforted, Wilson spends a much calmer evening next to House on the couch. 

He takes care of the channel-surfing while House reads.

GUN REDUX  
He stands in front of House's bathroom mirror with the gun to his head. He presses the barrel against his temple until it hurts, knowing he won't have the guts to do it but enjoying the pain. 

He imagines House finding him. It would be quite a mess, and House would plunge right into it, even though it would be fairly obvious that Wilson would be a lost cause....Wilson briefly indulges in a cliched fantasy of House holding his dead body before rolling his eyes and putting down the gun.

 _A little melodramatic,_ he scolds himself as he tugs at the bags under his eyes.

Besides, House is quite willing to hold his warm, _live_ body -- why not focus on the miracle of that?

God he's tired.

THISCLOSE

One night he comes thisclose to saying something.

He and House are watching some mindless TV; mainly, it seems, as an excuse to sit very close together on the couch. They're full from supper, they've had a couple of beers, and now they're just enjoying each other's company.

So of course Wilson is considering ruining their nice evening with his bullshit.

"Hey...House?" he says. They're just so relaxed, he thinks maybe they can talk about it without it being Such A Huge Deal.

"Yeah?" House replies. He starts rubbing Wilson's knee as he waits for Wilson to continue.

Wilson stares at House's hand, and decides he just can't break the spell. They seem to have a good thing going, and Wilson doesn't want to do anything to risk it.

"Nothing," he says, leaning closer against House.

"Are you sure?" House says, frowning and putting an arm around Wilson.

"Yeah," Wilson says, blatantly sinking into House's embrace. "It's nothing."

SNOW

He sits in the car, watching the snow fall. It’s pretty light right now, but it’s supposed to be a blizzard by nightfall.

Which is why House is in the gas station stocking up on essential candy bars and sodas.

Normally Wilson would insist on securing some real supplies, but he just doesn’t really care. There’s enough at House’s apartment to keep them alive for a week or so; that’ll be enough.

He imagines being snowed in with House and almost smiles. It could be a lot of fun.

Or he could feel trapped. 

The snow gets thicker as he watches, and he honks the horn. Patience hasn’t been his strong suit lately, and he wants to get home already, while he can still drive without sliding off the road.

His cell phone rings. “I’m almost done, okay? Chill.” House hangs up before Wilson can respond, and a flash of anger tears through him.

He’s been getting angry at the smallest thing lately, too. Not that you could tell by looking at him.

As House makes his way across the parking lot with his bagful of emergency sugar, Wilson does smile. House is a huge selfish asshole, and Wilson loves him so much it’s stupid.

By the time House climbs into the car, he’s not smiling anymore.

BRUISE

Clumsy.

He’s just gotten clumsy, is all. Comes naturally with getting older; nothing suspicious or weird about that.

It’s not a big bruise, but it hurts sufficiently for him to lie on the couch and abandon whatever mission had caused him to trip and slam into the desk and cause the bruise in the first place.

He’s still lying there when House comes home from work.

“Hey,” House says, looking down at him. He moves his legs so House can sit down, but doesn’t say anything. “So…what’s wrong with you?”

“I fell and bruised my side…not a big deal but I thought I would lie down ‘til it stopped hurting.”

“…Has it stopped hurting?”

“No.”

House pushes up his shirt and frowns, and when Wilson glances down he sees that the bruise has grown…not significantly, but noticeably. It’s gained a couple of colors, too.

He watches House’s face as he inspects the bruise, disappointed to see nothing more than a doctor’s concentration there.

But there is tenderness in his voice when he says, “I think you’ll live.” Wilson muses on this as House leaves the room to get an ice pack and a painkiller.

“Guess I’m cooking tonight, huh?” House calls from the kitchen. A few minutes later Wilson hears the microwave ding.

He sits up while they eat (and he does have to admit, House is an artist with a Hungry-Man dinner), but immediately afterwards House settles them on the couch with Wilson’s head in his lap.

It is just a bruise, Wilson thinks to himself, but he doesn’t say it because House knows damn well it’s just a bruise. But if House wants an excuse to let Wilson cuddle against him; an excuse to lazily run his hand through Wilson’s hair and along Wilson’s side -- well, there’s no way Wilson’s going to begrudge him that.

TESTING

Sometimes Wilson will go to House and kiss him, suddenly and passionately.

He’s looking for hesitation, hints of annoyance or regret or second thoughts or an indication that House has come to realize he’s not worth the time.

But he never senses any of that; House kisses him back with what can only be interpreted as gratitude for the opportunity, and the doubt inside Wilson is silenced for another short while.

Once he’s satisfied he breaks the kiss and goes on with whatever he was doing; House never questions his motivations, even when the time between random kisses begins to shrink dramatically.

Eventually the doubt can never be silenced, no matter how many kisses he steals.

PATHETIC

His level of self-loathing has ramped up considerably in the last few weeks.

He sits at the table, gnawing on his thumbnail. Bothered by something he can’t define, waiting for something he can’t expect.

He made the mistake of reflecting on his life yesterday; he saw no accomplishments, no accolades, nothing that made it worth living all those years.

All he saw was a stupid, lonely man, stubbornly refusing to die because of that one thought always in the back of his mind. That one subconscious hope -- that one subconscious excuse.

Pathetic, that’s the only way to describe it. That’s all it should say on his tombstone -- PATHETIC. Or maybe more specifically, PATHETIC TORCH-CARRYING LOSER.

It doesn’t matter that his torch-carrying actually paid off. If House had never fallen in love with him -- or realized that he loved him, or gotten scared enough to love him, or whatever the hell happened in his head -- he probably wouldn’t have realized how pathetic he was.

He certainly never would have realized it enough to dwell on it for hours on end.

His thumb is bleeding by the time House walks into the living room. He hides his hand under the table and swallows the coppery taste and smiles, thrilled and tormented by the affection in House’s eyes.

HAIR

It’s already after midnight, and he has a long morning of driving to this stupid conference ahead of him; so the responsible thing would be to already be asleep, packed and ready to go at first light. 

But his middle name is no longer Responsibility, so instead he’s grinding on top of House’s cock, savoring every sound his hips can cause House to make. 

After a particularly drawn-out moan, he grins and leans down for a long lick across House’s collarbone. “Gonna miss me?” he says into House’s ear.

“Oh,” House replies rather breathlessly, moving his fingers from the flesh of Wilson’s hips to the feathers of Wilson’s hair. “I suppose I can survive one weekend.” He pulls Wilson’s mouth to his and devours it, thrusting furiously upwards until _Wilson’s_ the one making the desperate noises.

Wilson arches his back and cries out at the ceiling, blocking out everything except the feel of House’s cock inside of him, the feel of House’s hand on his chest, the sound of his name as House’s other hand closes around him and pulls an orgasm from him that must make him black out because

The next time he’s aware of his surroundings it’s quiet, and he’s lying against House’s chest but they’re otherwise disengaged. House is running a hand slowly through his hair and asks, “When was the last time you had a haircut?”

Wilson smiles against House’s bare chest. “What, you don’t like it?”

“On the contrary,” House replies, curling a piece around one finger, “I’ve always rather preferred your hair a bit longer. This is just--”

“I’ll get it trimmed next week,” Wilson interrupts. It hadn’t occurred to him until now that he’d let his hair go so long without a cut, and something about it unnerves him, and he’s really enjoying lying here with House. He doesn’t want the afterglow derailed. 

House murmurs acknowledgment, kissing Wilson in his messy hair, then continuing to play with it until Wilson falls asleep. 

THIRD CONFERENCE

It’s after noon before Wilson finally leaves, which for him is rather odd. But it doesn’t matter; his presentation isn’t until late tomorrow morning anyway, and he doesn’t really care to see anyone else’s, so why get there early, right? Much better to spend a nice Saturday morning lazing around with House.

“Is that all you’re taking?” House asks, looking at Wilson’s carry-on and messenger bags. “You don’t even have a garment bag.”

“The room’ll probably have an iron,” Wilson explains absently, adjusting the bag on his shoulder.

House nods, and it’s time for Wilson to go, but neither one of them wants him to go, even though it’s only for two nights, and there’s a risk of things getting mushy and weird.

“Well, see ya,” House says casually, hugging Wilson and his bags awkwardly. Wilson turns to leave and House grabs him, making him drop the bags; he pushes him against the door for a proper good-bye kiss. 

An appropriate deal of groping later -- though to House’s credit, he stops just short of a hickey -- Wilson shakily recovers his bags, wanting to go even less. He picks up the well-worn messenger bag and gives it a long look.

“You know, I don’t think I even need to take this,” he says, taking a notebook out of the bag and handing the bag to House. 

“’Kay,” House replies, tossing it towards the wall. Wilson jumps a little when it hits the floor.

A tiny part of him hopes House looks in it while he’s gone.

MINIBAR

Wilson lies listlessly on the sofa, staring at the muted television. It’s quite a nice room, and he figures he might as well enjoy it. Except for the time it took to read his paper, he’s spent every minute here. The maid vacuumed around him.

He started draining the minibar as soon as his speech was over, and the small trashcans are filling up quickly. The beer and soda he just kind of lazily worked through while channel surfing throughout the afternoon, but now he’s downed the first mini-bottle of vodka.

He opens the notebook.

There’s so little in it that it’s incredibly depressing. Twenty years’ worth of aborted suicide notes in a single-subject, college-ruled notebook -- random sentences, scribbles, doodles. Scraps of ideas with reminders to flesh them out later. To-do lists: _Hector fed?_ Bonnie must have been out of town that weekend. _make sure House has enough pills?_ Well that could have been any time.

Random patients’ names that must have been important to him at the time, enough that he wanted to make sure they were taken care of.

Some pages have blood on them, a few enough that they’re stuck together. 

There’s one little doodle of House that Wilson drew while Tritter was around, when Wilson thought that House was lost to him forever. Wilson’s no artist by any means, but looking at the drawing again, he can’t help but feel it conveys the hatred he feared he would always see in House’s eyes.

Grabbing another bottle of vodka -- vanilla-flavored! -- he skims the numerous failed attempts at writing good-bye notes to House. Only _he_ would be able to tell that’s what they were, since none of them consists of anything more than _**House, I**_

Kinda funny, really.

Four bottles later, his cell phone rings. 

“Hello?” he answers happily.

“Hey,” House says. “You sound chipper. The presentation go well?”

“I guess. I wasn’t really paying attention,” Wilson says, idly writing his own name over and over in the notebook.

“O-kay. Are you all right?”

“Kinda bored. Raided the minibar.” Now he’s writing House’s name with a bunch of hearts. “Lots of vodka.”

“Big spender.”

“Imma doctor. I can afford it.”

“I know,” House chuckles. “Hey, have you watched the Weather Channel today?”

“Not _that_ bored.”

“All right, all right, it’s just -- there’s an ice storm coming through overnight, and I wanted to make sure you knew. So be extra careful tomorrow.”

“Yeah, okay, _Mom_. …Wait, why were _you_ watching the Weather Channel?”

Silence.

“Holy shit--”

“It’s getting cold, okay? And it’s been rainy, and yeah so maybe I was a little concerned. Maybe I -- maybe I _love you_ , okay? Okay, asshole? I love you. There. I’ve said it before, there I said it again. Don’t think _you’ve_ ever said it to _me_ , but that’s okay, I know you do--”

Wilson is amazed at the nervousness in House’s words, which only emphasize their sincerity. And he's still rambling.

“House, shut up! You have _no idea_ how much I love you, okay? You probably think you have some idea but you don’t. You really don’t. You can’t possibly ever have any idea. And that’s not the vodka talking, that’s _me_. Okay? _I love you_. Always know that.”

A few moments of silence, and then a rather incredulous, “Okay.”

“And now I need to hang up, because I have to vomit. And that _is_ the vodka talking.”

* * * * *

Throwing up leaves Wilson feeling sick the rest of the evening, so he pretty much lies in bed with the fan on, dozing on and off and fantasizing about House being there with him.

House calls about five times to check on him, though eventually Wilson has to insist on trying to actually go to sleep if he’s going to get up and out before check-out time.

Even so he’s still awake past midnight; he tries some sexual fantasies, hoping a quick release might get him to sleep. But every time he imagines House climbing on top of him, he just as quickly imagines House settling next to him, just holding Wilson against his chest.

There’s something perfect and sad about it, and he doesn’t know what’s wrong, or what’s right, and he wishes he could take a sleeping pill or something but he really needs to get up early.

Eventually _he_ calls _House_.

“Mmph,” House answers.

“Sorry,” Wilson says. “Can’t sleep.”

“Do you want me to sing to you?” House mumbles.

“No,” Wilson says glumly. “I want you to hold me.”

“All right, come here. …Oh wait, that’s a pillow.”

Wilson smiles. “Close enough for now, I guess.”

“I promise to hold the fuck out of you as soon as I can, deal?”

“Deal. ‘Night, House.”

“Great. ‘Night, Wilson.”


	11. forever.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning! POV shift--

BRIDGES FREEZE BEFORE ROADWAY

Normally he hates boring cases. A case his team can figure out without him might as well be no case at all; usually he indulges in a good tirade over why they wasted their time with it in the first place.

But today it’s just peachy, actually. It’s simple but labor-intensive enough to keep them occupied and arguing amongst themselves, leaving him free to daydream and wonder what he should pick up for supper.

He’s bounced his tenth rubber band off Kutner’s forehead when Cuddy pokes her head in the door from his office. “House,” she says curtly. 

“Yes?” he replies sweetly, looking at her upside-down. 

“We need to talk,” she continues in the same gruff voice, not meeting his eyes.

He gives the others the “uh-oh” eyebrow raise and follows her into the other room. When he takes a good look at her his heart freezes; she’s obviously been crying, her eye makeup completely washed away, her cheeks red. His first thought is his mother, because he can’t even imagine thinking the other thought--

“I just got a call,” she begins, obviously struggling to keep her voice even, “from a hospital in Pennsylvania. There was…an accident. They’re doing some construction on a bridge, and it was icy, and the car…it went into the river--”

“Is he okay?” It leaves his mouth before his brain can even process what she’s saying. 

_He hates it when people ask that. When it’s so fucking obvious from the way news is being relayed that the person is **not** okay, but the person being told is compelled to ask -- how many times has he been annoyed by that? “Well, her head was completely separated from her--” “Is she okay?” And yet here **he** is, asking it, because he cannot even begin to construct a world in which Wilson is not okay._

Her mouth keeps moving but sounds cease coming out of it. 

He doesn’t know what to do. It’s some weird coincidence that he’s still breathing. He looks at Cuddy, who’s crying anew. He looks over at his team, peering in curiously. 

None of them knows. Oh, they know that Wilson is his friend. His best friend. The only friend he’s had for the last twenty years. But they don’t know how much he _loves_ him. They probably think they know -- they actually probably think _they_ know better than he does, but--

\--but he _knows_ now, he knows now, he’s realized it, he’s acknowledged it, it took him a long time and it took almost losing Wilson again and for real this time for God’s sake it took--it took horrible mistakes but he was willing to atone for them, it’s not fair--

_IT’S NOT FAIR_ \--

Cuddy is reaching for him, trying to hug him, but if he accepts some sick attempt at comfort that makes it real, and it can’t be real, he refuses to accept it’s real.

He ducks away from her and stumbles out of the room, not even grabbing his cane before he does. Fuck it, he can limp. He can still _walk_ , it just hurts.

He only makes it as far as the men’s room before he has to stagger in to a stall and vomit. 

PAIN

_Gonna miss me?_

House stares at the ceiling, through the memory of Wilson’s face above his. 

_Gonna miss me?_

_Gonna miss me?_

_Gonna miss me?_

He can hear Wilson’s voice, as clear as if he were in the room. He can feel him, on top of him, around him, against him; his mouth, his hands, his--

_You have **no idea** how much I love you._

He’s slept for over twenty-four hours; his body refuses to sleep any more. 

_Looks like he panicked, hit the gas instead of the brake. It happens a lot more than you’d think; just bad luck it happened where it did. I’m real sorry--_

His stomach is empty and he’s dehydrated, but anything that enters his body instantly wants out.

_Gonna miss me?_

He shouldn’t have let him go. Why did he let him go? Why did he _encourage_ him to go to the stupid thing?

Because he was trying to show Wilson he could be different. He could be less selfish. When Wilson came back to him -- and holy of holies when Wilson came _into his bed_ \-- he wanted to hold him down and never let him out of his sight.

But he was afraid of angering Wilson all over again; of reminding Wilson why he left. So he tried to be different…and look where it got him.

_Gonna miss me?_

No, no, no, it’s not his fault. Just like…just like Amber’s death wasn’t his _fault_ , not really… _just bad luck it happened where it did_ \--

His stomach clenches, and if there was anything in it, it would be coating the sheets next to him. 

Is this what Wilson felt when Amber died? Did _he_ cause Wilson this pain? 

No wonder he left. All the things House had done to Wilson over the years…well, Wilson gave right back for the most part. Verbally, at least; he always let House know his displeasure, or annoyance, or anger. But he let House get away with it, because -- because he loved House.

But how could you forgive someone _this_? This is living death. If he had the energy and a high bridge himself, he’d walk right off the edge. 

But Wilson _had_ forgiven him. He had tried to stay away and he couldn’t, even when House had lost all hope of him coming back. Maybe it had taken an outside force, but he still could have left.

But he didn’t. He had come right back.

Because he had loved House that much.

_Gonna miss me?_  
]  
HALF-STITCHED SCAR  
 _For many the cumulative despair simply becomes unendurable; there is a steady erosion in the brake linings of the mental system that apply force against self-murder._ \--Kay Redfield Jamison, _Night Falls Fast_

The next day a package arrives addressed to Wilson. Which would be odd enough, except the return address is from Wilson as well.

He shuffles to the couch with it and holds it for several minutes, staring at Wilson’s handwriting. He opens one end of the package carefully and pulls out a weathered notebook, which he recognizes as the one Wilson removed from his messenger bag before leaving.

He glances over at where the bag has been lying since Saturday; he’d forgotten all about it until now.

The notebook has a postcard sticking out of it, with a picture of an upscale hotel on the front; House assumes it’s the one Wilson just stayed at. 

He turns it over to read what Wilson’s written, in the most legible writing of Wilson’s he’s ever seen.

_House,_

_I’m so sorry._

_It’s better this way._

_I love you._

_-Wilson_

House stares at it for a long time before it completely sinks in.

He’s holding a suicide note.

He’s holding Wilson’s suicide note.

There’s a stamp on the postcard, like Wilson was only going to mail that but then decided he wanted House to know more. 

House drops the notebook and retrieves the messenger bag. He sits back down and with shaking hands reaches in and pulls out the gun and slams it on the coffee table next to the notebook and makes a strange desperate noise unlike anything he’s ever made before.

His brain can’t help but try to put pieces together; and if Wilson deliberately left the gun behind, it means that he was having second thoughts. It means House could have saved him.

He slowly picks up the notebook and starts reading. Some of it doesn’t make a lot of sense to him -- names, notes, dates -- but the overall effect is there. 

This wasn’t a recent development.

Several pages have blood on them, and several others are blank expect for the words _House I_ at the top. 

Wilson had been struggling with this for…

…ever.

House doesn’t know if he just never saw it, or if he didn’t want to see it, or if Wilson was that good at hiding it…but he sees it all now. 

Time, along with other things, is starting to unravel in House’s brain.

_House I_

So many times House didn’t notice how little Wilson was eating because he was busy stealing Wilson’s food.

_House I_

Seeing scratches and bruises on Wilson’s arms and teasing him for being clumsy, then not commenting when he wore his sleeves down.

_House I_

All the times Wilson preferred to sleep on his couch than go home, even when he had a wife there…

_House I_

All the times he didn’t notice that Wilson was constantly hiding his loneliness, or sadness, or anger….He just got used to it, is all. It’s just who Wilson was.

And besides, Wilson could have asked for help any time! House throws down the notebook, some anger of his own now growing. He could have--

“He was too busy helping _you_.”

House looks up, startled, wiping tears from his eyes.

Amber smiles at him from the chair across the room.

“Why didn’t he say anything?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” she says softly.

“I didn’t have a chance to help him…”

“ _You_ had twenty years,” she snaps accusingly, then closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry. That’s not fair.”

“I think maybe it is,” he says, gazing at the notebook. “I don’t know anymore. I can’t make sense of this. …I can‘t solve this puzzle.”

“Do you _want_ to solve this puzzle?”

He looks up at her, numb. “No. I don’t.”

She looks as if she expects him to say more, and when he doesn’t she looks around and whistles. “You’ve really managed to mess this place up in just a few days.”

He’s staring at the gun now. “It was like this before he left.”

She frowns. “ _Wilson_ was living here and it looked like this?”

“Didn’t ask him to clean…didn’t want him to think that’s why I wanted him here. Wanted to show him I could change…be unselfish….And when he didn’t clean on his own, I didn’t even comment on that!” He laughs mirthlessly. “I am a fucking genius.”

They both stare at the gun. “I can’t live without him. That sounds like a fucking soap opera but it’s true -- especially not when I fucking killed him.”

“You didn’t kill him, _genius_ , any more than you killed me. You kept him alive, for a long time, at least. He loved you.” 

There’s an unspoken _Still…_ between them. _Still,_ if Amber hadn’t been killed; _still_ , if House had realized he could love Wilson like this _years_ ago, before they even knew Amber…

Two people dead because his brain failed when it mattered.

He picks up the gun and briefly looks to her for solace, or support, or _something_.

“It’s okay,” she says as he presses the barrel against his temple. “I know you loved him, and he knew it too.”

That’s all he needs to hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a rather elaborate "alternate ending" version of this story that I guess I'll post too. (Can't you do like "series" on this site or smth? idk i'll figure it out) anyway if you've read all this thanks and lemme know if you want that alternate ending because it'll be trickier to post and i might just never bother because effort. Cheers, jane

**Author's Note:**

> Title is by Anne Sexton, whose poem I used for titles the last times I posted this. I'm gonna change it up with a poem by Edward Thomas (taken from Kay Redfield Jamison's EXCELLENT _Night Falls Fast_) because WHAT THE HELL!!!


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